


How the Dreamt Cloud Crumbles

by tobiowithnobrim



Category: Haikyuu!!, The 5th Wave Series - Rick Yancey
Genre: Alien Invasion, Aliens, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Apocalypse, Everyone is traumatized, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Instability, Mentions of Suicide, Military, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sort Of, Tragedy, Violence, inspired by the fifth wave, lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobiowithnobrim/pseuds/tobiowithnobrim
Summary: They first appeared in Munich and made their way to Tokyo before long. Huge, prophetic flying disks looming above the city. Then, they invaded the minds of the humans and drove them mad. They call them the hijacked.In spite of everything, Akaashi Keiji survives. He wishes he didn't.In spite of everything, Bokuto Koutarou fights. He was born for this.The fate of humanity hinges on whether Akaashi Keiji can get Bokuto Koutarou to Tokyo, the home he lost three years ago.In this new world, however, trust is scarce and precious, and Akaashi will have to learn to put aside his own humanity if he is to succeed.(weekly updates)
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 46
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Advice to a Prophet](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43044/advice-to-a-prophet/) by Richard Wilbur.
> 
> Slightly inspired by _The Fifth Wave_ and [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6080163/chapters/13936092) Bokuaka fic.
> 
> CW; mentions of suicide in the first chapter

His irises are black as his pupils, and that’s the first thing Akaashi notices. Not the way his arms are outstretched in an all-too-familiar manner, or the way his voice rises in a lilt after beckoning to him.

“Akaashi, be reasonable!” Sarukui’s voice resounds over the rush of the river. “Just put the gun down. It’s me, remember? From high school?”

Akaashi is still, fingers tightening around the grip, pointer on the trigger. He doesn’t speak. He does remember.

“Akaashi,” Yukie murmurs next to him. “It’s not him.”

“Fukurodani!” Sarukui takes a step forward and Akaashi feels Yukie startle, searching for a gun that isn’t there. 

“Stay right there!” Akaashi commands. And then, his voice lowers. “Please, Sarukui.”

A lopsided smile crosses the man’s face. “My name! My name, you remember! Remember playing volleyball together?”

“How would he know that,” Akaashi murmurs to Yukie, “if it’s not him?”

She shakes her head. “They can tap into memories, Akaashi.” Her voice shakes with fear. “You have to.”

_Shoot him._ She doesn’t have to finish her sentence because Akaashi knows what she’s about to say.

“We can go back,” says Sarukui. “I know you want to. All you have to do is give me Bokuto.”

Akaashi steals a glance next to him, seeing Bokuto’s wide amber eyes, gripping the hilt of the knife as if it’s going to protect him. He knows in his heart he can’t give Bokuto away, not after all this. He hates the way fear makes Bokuto look, the panic surging throughout his body obvious.

“Akaashi, come on,” Sarukui says, his voice pleading now. Akaashi looks up at him and notices a single tear falling down his cheek. His lower lip is trembling and suddenly, he falls to his knees, violently hacking blood into the palm of his hand. 

“He’s fighting against it,” Yukie says. “You have to pull the trigger. For his own good, if nothing else.”

“Akaashi, please,” Sarukui is saying, and Akaashi’s not even sure if he’s talking about giving up Bokuto now. Tears spill over his eyes, blood from his mouth, and he careens forward, catching himself on his hands. Akaashi feels his own body shake, not from fear but from a mixture of sadness and grief that clouds his vision and makes him wonder whatever he did to deserve to live in the current world. As Akaashi pulls the trigger, he feels Bokuto take hold of his jacket.

“Hey, Akaashi!”

Akaashi looks up from his desk to see Komi and Sarukui, each holding their respective lunch boxes. They make their way over to Akaashi’s desk and pull up a seat. Akaashi ignores them and goes back to resting his head on his arm and closing his eyes.

“What’s your problem?” Komi asks, unzipping his lunch box. “Are you not hungry or something?”

“Just stressed,” Akaashi murmurs. “Got a calc test next period.”

“Really?” Komi replies. “Why is every teacher giving out tests right now? The semester’s not close to being over.”

“What do you mean?” asks Sarukui. “I haven’t taken a test yet. And Akaashi, if you’re so stressed, why don’t you study?”

Akaashi picks his head up. “How do you study for calculus? I don’t know that.”

“Know the formulas,” Komi says pointedly. “And the rules. Hm, product, quotient. . . what’s the other one?”

“Chain,” supplies Sarukui, “although I don’t really understand that one either.”

Akaashi stands up, walks over to his cubby, and returns with his lunchbox. “Good for you. I don’t understand any of them.”

“I can teach you,” says Komi. “I’m pretty good at calculus.”

“Please,” Sarukui snorts. “You’re such a liar.”

“Am not!” Komi says. “I’m sure Akaashi doesn’t wanna take that chance, y’know?”

“What chance?” asks Akaashi, mouth full of rice from his lunch.

“Failing calc. Y’know, if you’re failing a class, they won’t let you play volleyball.”

Akaashi waves a hand dismissively. “I’m not gonna fail. I’ll just. . . I dunno. Figure it out. How hard can it be, really?”

“It’s just derivatives,” says Sarukui plainly. “But calc is tricky. You always think you know how to solve the problem then boom! Sixty-eight on the test.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” Akaashi asks lightly.

Komi snickers and Sarukui is just about to open his mouth when there’s a shriek from the classroom across from them. They all exchange a glance and look around at the others in Akaashi’s class. Some of them are whispering and others are silent, no longer interested in eating lunch or the impending doom that is next period’s calculus test.

“What’s that?” someone cries from the classroom across.

“Holy shit, holy shit!” Another yell.

“A spider?” Sarukui asks with a raised eyebrow.

Interested now, the other students rush over to see what’s going on. Akaashi stands up, followed by Komi and Sarukui and pushes his way across the hall to the other classroom. When he does, his mouth hangs open.

It’s not a spider or a bug at all. In fact, it’s not even in the classroom. Outside, some ten or twenty miles away, hanging in the sky, is a massive circular black disk.

“Holy fuck,” Komi breathes next to him.

Akaashi’s blood is cold. Even from here, he can see the lights of the ship, the ominous curve of its metal, and the way it seems to continue upwards for infinity, like the Eiffel Tower. It’s hanging over the busiest part of Tokyo.

And it’s just over his apartment complex.

There’s another group of screams, shouts, and general panic and Akaashi feels his breath lodge in his throat. His knees feel weak, and he buckles forward, but he’s caught by Sarukui. He looks up at his friend, whose eyes are dancing with fear as he holds Akaashi.

“Students please!” The voice of a teacher, breaking in through the chaos. “Return to your homerooms! We’ll give further instruction from there!”

Many of the kids are not willing to turn their eyes away from the enormous UFO enveloping their city, but Akaashi, leaning on Sarukui, heads steadily back to his class across the hall.

Sarukui makes sure Akaashi’s safely seated before turning to Komi. They’re in the same homeroom and it’s not hard to understand what they’re thinking.

“After this,” says Komi in a low voice, “find us.”

Akaashi feels faint. “Where?” The school’s already large and if he’s blinded by fear, he’s afraid he’ll miss them.

Komi and Sarukui exchange another glance before Komi speaks again. “The gym. We’ll wait by the gym.”

Akaashi nods and right as they turn their backs, he buries his head in his arms. His heart is pounding out of his chest, his blazer feels too tight on his body and his tie feels like it’s strangling him. He reaches into his backpack for his water bottle and drinks heartily before loosening his tie and reaching into his blazer pocket for his phone. Rules be damned, his mother stays at their apartment and his father works in downtown Tokyo. He dials his mom’s number first.

She picks up immediately. “ _Keiji, I was just about to call you! Are you okay? Has anything happened?_ ”

Akaashi feels his throat constrict over his words and he shakes his head, but then realizes she has no way of seeing that. “No, nothing’s happened. What’s going on. . .? What’s happening down there, are you okay?”

“ _I’m okay, for now_ ,” she replies. “ _There’s a couple men from the Japanese military instructing people into these airplanes._ ”

“Wait, but I’m not home!” Akaashi says into the phone. “Please. . . please don’t leave without me or Dad.”

“ _I’m not planning on it, Keiji_ ,” she says, her voice cracking. “ _Your father is headed here as we speak but Keiji. . . I don’t know if they’re letting us wait_.”

Akaashi feels faint for the second time that day. “What? They’re just. . . taking you? But what will I do?”

There’s a pause and Akaashi swears he hears her let a sob loose. “ _I don’t. . . I don’t know. I’ll stay as long as I can. Your father will pick me up and then we’ll come get you. If we don’t. . ._ ”

“Mom,” Akaashi begins, lower lip trembling.

“ _If we don’t. . . make sure you stay safe. We’ll find you eventually, Keiji. We love you. I love you._ ”

“Mom, please,” Akaashi says. 

He hears the sound of boots pounding on wood and his mother startle. Suddenly, the line goes dead. “Mom?” he asks into the phone. There’s no answer. “Mom?” His voice, more desperate this time. 

He looks around his class, seeing other kids calling their parents. Some of them have tears streaming down their faces, some of them blank, and still others with their hands folded in prayer.

“Students! Attention! Everyone up front!” his homeroom teacher says, summoning the attention of around half of the students. Akaashi looks up, clutching the hem of his blazer.

His teacher clears his throat and holds out his hands. After another couple moments, the rest of the class is waiting for him to speak, so he does so. “Due to. . . recent developments, all students are to wait in the auditorium when the class is called down. As your parents arrive, you’ll be dismissed. Unless. . .” His voice trails off and Akaashi feels nauseous. 

“Unless what?” one of his classmates asks. “My mom’s already been picked up by the military downtown. What happens to me?” 

Akaashi’s stomach turns as he realizes this is probably his reality too. His mother is likely with the military, his father God-knows-where and all he knows now is to find Sarukui and Komi by the gym. He doesn’t know when, and he is beginning to understand that if all hell breaks loose, they’ll wait for him. He trusts this fact and finds a strand of comfort in it.

“Well,” his teacher begins and Akaashi can hear how obviously distraught he is. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I don’t. All I know is everyone is to wait in the auditorium to be picked up.”

There’s an outburst from his classmates. 

“In a group? That’s a horrible idea!”

“Why is the military kidnapping people from their homes?”

“What if my mother never comes?”

There’s one complaint that seems to stain the backs of their minds but nobody thinks to yell it out in the chaos. _What if those things attack the school?_ But luckily, Akaashi knows the answer to this, at least for him. He can hear Komi’s voice, echoing throughout his skull. _The gym. We’ll wait by the gym._ He lets it drown out all his panicky thoughts.

“Class two-A to the auditorium, two-A to the auditorium,” their intercom says. 

“Single file, single file! Take your bags!” his homeroom teacher yells as the students stand up to leave. Akaashi slings his bag over his shoulder, holding his phone tightly in case it rings. They enter the auditorium, which is already rowdy with the first-years. They’re yelling, praying, making calls, peeking out through the exit, which leads to the fields. Akaashi takes a seat away from his classmates and stares into his lap at his black phone screen. Just then, it lights up with a text.

_sarukui  
my parents were just taken by the military._

Akaashi feels his breath lodge in his throat. Sarukui’s parents live closer to the school, further from his own apartment complex downtown. The military is moving out, and they certainly have his mother. In other words, he’ll never be picked up unless by some miracle his father managed to slip past them, but that’s unlikely. A thought crosses his mind, fleeting and stupid, that he should make a run for it. He’s got the rest of his lunch in his bag, his wallet with his school ID, a phone at seventy-five percent battery, and zero experience fending for himself. He looks up at the exit and can see the massive UFO still hovering over the city in the distance.

He texts Sarukui back, which Komi will see, since he’s in a group chat.

_akaashi  
so were mine. i’m gonna lie and say they’re here, i’ll wait behind the gym for you guys._

It’s a stupid idea and he knows it but there’s no way he’s going to sit here and let himself be permanently separated from his parents and his friends at the same time. He wonders, briefly, if they’ll reunite him with his mom and dad but then dismisses the thought when he remembers the boy in his class, whose parents had also been taken by the military. There’s no doubt every other kid in Tokyo has been separated from their parents and the last thing on the government’s mind is making sure every child is with their parents.

Akaashi stands up and looks around across the sea of students before seeing his homeroom teacher. He walks up to him, who, luckily, seems to have his hands full with other students.

“My mother is here,” Akaashi says blankly. 

“Okay, okay,” his homeroom teacher says and then turns, meeting Akaashi’s eye. There’s a flicker of suspicion before he opens his mouth. “Don’t you. . . live in Tokyo city?”

Adrenaline courses through Akaashi’s veins. “We, uhm. . . moved locally a few weeks ago. To the suburbs.” He clears his throat. “Can I go?”

His teacher is too preoccupied to fight him, so he simply waves his hand. “Stay safe, Akaashi.”

Akaashi bows and says the same thing before rushing out of the exit. He breaks into a jog, out of sight of the people in the auditorium and doesn’t stop until his back is against the exterior of the indoor gymnasium. On a normal day, it’s a minute-walk from the main building to the indoor gym, so Akaashi hopes he’s out of the mind of his teacher and texts Sarukui and Komi that he’s waiting.

There’s no reply. He waits for another two or three minutes, giving both of them the benefit of the doubt. Then, glances back and realizes he can’t hear anything from the auditorium, the doors are closed now.

Akaashi turns his head back and sinks to the grass below and opens his lunch to try to get some food in his body. In the commotion, he had forgotten how hungry he was. He leaves his phone out, making sure not to use it out of boredom because he knows he’ll need it later. Just then, there’s another buzz.

_komi  
we just got to the audit, there’s some soldier talking to everyone. we’re gonna leave asap_

_sarukui  
akaa i think it might be a good idea for u to run_

Another bout of panic surges throughout Akaashi’s body and he texts back quickly.

_akaashi  
where?!_

_akaashi  
i dont wanna leave u guys_

_komi  
i think he’s gonna start taking the first years_

_sarukui  
he’s talking about the ufo, its some hostile force. they say they’re taking us to safety_

_komi  
i dont trust him_

_akaashi  
guys please get out of there_

_akaashi  
cant u just say u have to go to the bathroom or smth_

_sarukui  
kids have already tried that n they just get put in military trucks_

Suddenly, as Akaashi’s putting his lunch away, he hears a flurry of shots and screams from the inside of the auditorium. Without thinking, he immediately calls Sarukui but he’s taken straight to voicemail. He hears the sound of pounding on doors and then realizes that they’re trying to get _out_. 

“What the hell?” he whispers to himself. Peering out from behind the wall, he can hear the shrieks of the kids, the yells of the soldiers, and the sounds of doors being pounded on, of people fighting one another. He clutches his backpack to his chest. Just then, his phone rings and he picks up quickly, seeing the caller ID as _sarukui._

_“Akaashi! Akaashi! Get out of here!”_

His voice is flooded with panic and Akaashi can barely hear him over the shots and screams in the background.

“What’s happening? Are you okay?” Akaashi replies back, suddenly intent on not leaving.

“ _There’s no point!_ ” Akaashi can hear tears seeping into Sarukui’s words. “ _They’re gonna kill us! They didn’t wanna take us to safety!_ ”

“But--the kids on military trucks!” Akaashi says, voice rising. 

“ _Dead, dead! All dead! They’re shooting--_ ” The line cuts out and Akaashi hears the sound of a phone hitting the ground.

He brings a hand to his mouth and his knees buckle. His mind feels like it’s overheating and he can’t fathom that he has just listened to his friend die. Tears spring from his eyes and he leans on his elbows in the grass. He begins to realize his mother, too--dead. His father, dead. He doesn’t know why they haven’t left anyone alive. He thinks with sincerity that it might be better if they found him here. A bullet to the head would surely be better than whatever awaits him tomorrow.

He begins to hear the sound of boots on pavement and then the whir of engines coming to life. He wonders, briefly, if they’ve spared him, or perhaps they’re driving around to get a full view of the school and it’s then that he’ll be shot. But when the rolling tires begin to fade into the distance, he recognizes that they didn’t spare him at all, they simply didn’t see him.

He lets loose a cry of pain, pain that’s not particularly physical, and falls face-first onto the ground. Everyone’s dead, he thinks. Everyone but me.

“Why did I live?” he mutters between sobs. He considers staying here, with the grass tickling his cheeks and the gentle breeze skipping through a cloudy day. Circumstances notwithstanding, it’s a lovely day. It’s April, Akaashi remembers, and almost May. When he left for school this morning, he was excited for warmer weather but not so much for his calculus test.

 _His calculus test._ God, he had never longed to take a calculus test more.

Akaashi turns over onto his back, staring up at the clouds above. He can see the shadow of the flying disk from here. If this is the apocalypse, he thinks, he would much rather just die here. Staying alive is a fruitless fight and one he’ll inevitably lose anyway. 

There has to be something in the auditorium, he thinks. He doesn’t want to be alive, not with everyone he cares about dead. Perhaps someone left behind a weapon, something he can use to quietly put a bullet to his head and pass on. 

His feet carry him to the auditorium, he hasn’t even bothered to take his backpack with him. It still sits next to the gym. He didn’t bring his phone either. When he curls his hand around the door handle, he pauses briefly, bracing himself for the scene on the inside. He repeats his goal aloud to himself a couple times-- _a loaded gun and get this over with, a loaded gun and get this over with_ \--and pulls the handle.

It’s locked. Of course it is. Everyone was pounding on it when they started shooting and Akaashi wants to slap himself for being so stupid. 

Slowly, Akaashi makes his way around the building, looking once, twice for any stray military personnel who may not have left. When the coast is clear, he enters through the other doors. 

The stench of blood is so potent that he nearly turns around. But the thought of _what do I do now, other than die?_ is so burned into his mind that he forces himself to look in on the damage.

There are bodies everywhere, strewn about like dolls. No one’s alive, he’s sure. Teachers and students alike litter the floor, blood staining their nicely pressed uniforms. Akaashi sees how not all of their eyes are closed, how most of them are situated near the back doors, the locked ones, as they’d tried to escape in their final moments. He sees the fear still ingrained forever into the eyes of their corpses, how some of them held each other, how tear tracks lined their cheeks. 

Akaashi feels his throat close and he turns, vomiting his lunch onto the grass beneath his feet. He feels another breakdown coming but he reminds himself that he’s here not to gape at the bodies of his classmates but to see if there was somehow a weapon left behind that he could end himself with.

Wiping his lip and taking a breath, he starts into the room. The auditorium is a large place, with a stage and a few hundred seats ascending upwards. Akaashi doesn’t even want to think about the fact that Sarukui and Komi’s bodies probably wait for him, riddled with bullets.

As he steps over the bodies of the people he used to know, to speak to, he keeps his mind focused one a gun. Anything silver, a necklace, earring, cellphone, catches his eye but he feels disappointment sink in his stomach when he realizes it’s not a gun. He doesn’t let himself look further up on the stairs, simply because he knows if he sees Sarukui or Komi’s body, he knows he’ll lose sight of everything.

Suddenly, in the mass of bodies piled up near the locked set of doors, he notices something. It’s not a gun, but it’s an arm sticking out from the bottom, and its owner is not wearing a Fukurodani Academy uniform. In fact, it looks like the camouflage print of the Japanese Army. 

Akaashi’s interest is piqued now. Maybe the crowd managed to trample a soldier during the chaos. And maybe that soldier is dead because of it. Maybe their corpse holds Akaashi’s ticket out of the current world. 

Cautiously, Akaashi tiptoes around his classmates’ bodies and stops when he reaches the pile of bodies. The soldier is covered by what looks like two-ish corpses, enough so that Akaashi can’t see more than their arm. He knows he’s got to _touch_ the bodies now because he can’t even see if the soldier is in fact armed.

He reaches out and runs his hand along the forearm of a girl’s body. He doesn’t recognize her face even now with the blank expression it holds. Her skin is cold and Akaashi pulls his hand back when he realizes how nonhuman she feels.

Slowly, he takes her hand in his and examines it. Her nails and painted a light pink so as to adhere to the dress code that only allows nails to be painted a neutral color. They’re chipped a little, and Akaashi sees a few Sharpie marks on her knuckles. The characters read _Ejiri_ in messy print. 

Akaashi knows Ejiri, he’s in class two-B. He’s holding the hand of Ejiri’s dead girlfriend. 

Tears spring into his eyes when he remembers. He never knew Ejiri that well, only knew that he had a girlfriend. This girl, he doesn’t remember her name and he hates himself for it. He only remembers that she was very sweet and a good swimmer. Now, she lies in a heap with cold, pale skin and bloodless veins. 

Akaashi wants to throw up again but there’s nothing left in his stomach. He can’t examine every corpse like this, he can’t remember that they were all living and having a good life at that, painting their nails and letting their significant others write their names on their hands. Drawing in another breath, he wraps her arm around his neck and tugs her off of the pile of bodies. Then, he lays her on the ground a few meters away and folds her hands across her stomach. He doesn’t look at her face.

There’s two more bodies blocking Akaashi’s access to the soldier, and he makes sure not to look at their faces or their hands. He doesn’t need to think about their past lives.

And he’s correct when he sees the soldier. There’s no visible wound, at least not to Akaashi, and strapped to his waist is a small pistol and set of ammo. His opposite arm has his fingers curled around the handle of the gun as if he was trying to pull it out before getting mobbed. 

Swallowing bile back in his throat, Akaashi takes a step forward, so he’s on the other side of the soldier, his back to the locked doors. One by one, he releases the iron grip of the soldier from the handle and rests his arm by his side. Then, Akaashi removes the gun from the holster. He assumes it’s loaded and there’s only one way to find out. 

His heart pounds out of his chest. This is really happening, he thinks. For a moment, he doesn’t want to--he had never thought about his own mortality but he knew he wouldn’t want to go out like this. With the faint assumption that everyone around him had already died and surefire knowledge that he was fully alone, it’s actually the last way he would like to die. He would’ve preferred dying of old age in a hospital, maybe with his wife or husband but he supposes Ejiri’s girlfriend would’ve liked to die like that too. 

Why am I thinking about her, he wonders, angling the gun so the muzzle is pressed to his temple. She is dead. Ejiri probably is too.

And as his finger brushes the trigger, the hypocrisy of everything hits him. 

Ejiri’s girlfriend wanted to live. That’s why she rushed straight at an armed soldier, to get out and free herself. Ejiri would’ve wanted to live too. That’s why Sarukui called him and told him to run, so he could live. And here he is, in the very place Sarukui and Ejiri and his girlfriend died, trying to end his own life. 

As he relaxes the gun, he feels his body crash to the floor and hands curling around his neck.


	2. Chapter 2

Akaashi feels a ringing in his head as it pounds against the wooden floor and the wind is knocked from his body. He gasps out for air but hands are closing tightly around his throat and all he can manage is a weak gargle. 

It’s the soldier, legs on either side of him, dashing any hopes he had of escaping. Akaashi sees how his eyes have no color, how his pupils seem to expand outward catching any hint of iris. Perhaps it’s the spots of black that are clouding his vision.

He struggles against the soldier, but he’s huge and muscular, and not letting up. Akaashi’s head aches and the soldier brings him up by his neck and slams his head back down on the floor.

Akaashi’s dancing on the line between consciousness and unconsciousness now and he knows if he closes his eyes, he’ll die. He hears a sickening tearing noise in his neck and a jolt of pain courses through his body--if he wasn’t being strangled, he would’ve screamed. As the soldier is bringing his head up again, a tear slips down his face.

“Get out of the city,” he says, voice strained.

Akaashi can only struggle to breath and his fingers close tighter and tighter around his throat. Just then, his oxygen-deprived brain registers that the soldier hasn’t kicked the gun away from him yet. As the soldier slams his head down on the floor, he uses the final ounce of strength he has and presses the muzzle to his head and pulls the trigger.

There’s a loud bang and blood splashes across Akaashi’s face as the soldier falls forward, his grip relaxing. Akaashi shoves the soldier off of him and gets on all fours, gasping to catch his breath. Blood streams from his nose, down the back of his head. He collapses to the ground beside the man and shuts his eyes. His breath is raggedy and he hears the soldier’s last words echoing in his ear.

 _He was crying._ Akaashi’s crying too now. 

“Shit,” Akaashi mumbles and his voice sounds almost robotic. He knows his vocal cords are damaged and a jolt of pain shoots down his torso as he uses his voice. Even holding his neck above his shoulders feels excruciating.

_Get out of the city._

Akaashi wants to run. He wants to vomit again. He doesn’t know where to go. If his vocal cords weren’t crushed, he’d probably scream. But all he can do now, lying helplessly on the auditorium floor surrounded by the dead bodies of his friends, is cry wordlessly.

Akaashi realizes he must’ve passed out because when he opens his eyes, the sun sits high on the horizon and it looks to be about three o’clock. The UFO is still there, above Tokyo.

The pain in his throat has dulled to a low throbbing but breathing takes less energy. He sits up and looks around, running his fingers through his hair. He’s still in the auditorium, the stench of death more prominent than it was a few hours ago. His head spins and he grits his teeth at the migraine. But he’s feeling a little better now, and he feels like, as terrifying as it might’ve been, the soldier was right. He has to get out of the city.

Akaashi turns to the body of the dead soldier and runs his hands over the man’s pockets. He’s got a dagger strapped to the outside of his thigh, so Akaashi takes it, along with the hilt, and laces it around his own thigh. The belt on the soldier contains the set of ammo Akaashi saw earlier and a holster for the pistol, so Akaashi takes that as well. 

Slowly, Akaashi lets himself stand up, holding onto the wall for support. His vision blurs and his ears begin to ring. He groans and looks around, taking a few steps around the auditorium.

His brain feels foggy and his concentration is off. But in his daze, he realizes lots of the students died with their backpacks on them.

 _Food,_ Akaashi’s brain tells him, _get their food_. 

He stumbles around, reaching into backpacks to look for lunchboxes. He collects as many as he can hold and rushes out of the room. His stomach is rumbling and he vaguely remembers vomiting before entering. But other than that, all his memories seem to be muddy. 

Squinting, he sees the backpack he left, and his phone next to it. Oh. He was going to end his life. That was why he went in without them.

He sits down on the grass and brings a hand to his forehead, praying the roar of blood in his ears and the throbbing in his head will go away. The sun is so bright even though it’s late afternoon and he can’t seem to get his goals straight.

 _Get out of the city_. Those words are ingrained in his mind, so he acts on them.

He dumps out the contents of the lunchboxes he scavenged and shoves them into his bag. For safekeeping, he puts the extra ammunition into his bag as well. Then, he gets up shakily. 

He’s not really sure where he’s going, north, maybe? As long as he gets out of the city, he thinks. 

He feels like he’s walking through thick mud and his legs are being pulled down into the earth. Eventually, he falls to his knees, to collect his bearings. He reaches into his bag, searching for his water bottle. When he pulls it out, he realizes with dread that it’s only half full, and he feels like he could drink it twice over. 

So he limits himself to a few sips and makes a deal with himself--if he walks for another twenty minutes without stopping, he’ll let himself take another couple sips and have a break. Just a few miles north of Fukurodani will lead him to the suburbs and he’s not sure what he’ll find there.

He stands up slowly and keeps walking. As he does, his head throbs more and more and his vision goes in and out of focus but using his legs is less of a challenge. Just as he thinks this, it hits him that he must’ve jinxed it because he feels his legs go weak and he begins to see spots. 

“Break,” he mutters to himself, voice as grainy as the sand. 

Akaashi takes an unintentionally long break, and he knows this because he tells himself to get up and keep walking but he can’t. The back of his head has begun to bleed again, along with his nose, and he shuts his eyes, racking his brain for answers to his condition.

But his brain is clearly unreliable and he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to do. For what seems like the umpteenth time today, he begins to cry. 

His own exposure washes over him and he’s suddenly aware of the blood on his uniform, not all of it his. There’s blood from the soldier on his cheek that’s long-since dried and Akaashi doesn’t want to waste the energy needed to bring his hand up and wipe it out.

He wants to go home, he thinks. He wants to laugh with Sarukui about his calc test, to walk home with Komi and stop for frozen yogurt at their favorite shop. He wants to hug his mom and tell her about his day while watching dramas and wants to go to bed after setting an alarm for morning volleyball practice. 

But that’s all gone. There’s a UFO hanging over Tokyo, Akaashi has shot a man, and listened as all of his classmates were murdered. It’s likely, he thinks, that he’ll die somewhere around here of dehydration or starvation. Or maybe he’ll be like that soldier with black eyes.

He’ll die anyway. He reaches into his bag and drinks the last of his water. Then, he throws the bottle as far away as possible, not caring that maybe he’ll find a source and be able to fill it up. He’ll die anyway.

As black clouds his vision, he hears a whirring.

Akaashi fights to keep his eyes open, to keep his consciousness and to get away from these people, but he can’t.

It’s a helicopter, and he’s swung over someone’s back like a sack of potatoes.

“Just a kid,” he calls as he ascends up the ladder. “Looks like his school got the axe.”

 _Got the axe? What does that mean?_ Akaashi wants to scream, wants to push him down and run away but he knows in his heart he doesn’t have the strength for that. He can barely stand, and this man feels very muscular.

“No he’s not hurt. At least, I don’t think,” the man called up, clearly answering someone’s question. “I don’t see anyone else around.” He lowered his voice. “Why’dja collapse, kid? Scared of the alien fuckers in Tokyo?”

_Alien fuckers?_

Akaashi doesn’t answer. He can’t, it’s not like he can just speak words with his crushed vocal cords. 

As the man reaches the helicopter, Akaashi feels himself being laid down on cold, hard floor. He lets out a groan of pain as they absentmindedly let his head drop onto it.

“Oh, he’s awake,” a woman says. She pries Akaashi’s eyes open with her fingers and shines a light into them. “His brain’s not bleeding, thank God.”

“To Kyoto!” the man calls, presumably to the pilot.

“Hey, Ukai,” the woman says, “why didn’t you tell me his head was bleeding?”

“What?” the man, Ukai, asks. “Well, I didn’t look that hard. I saw a kid lying on the ground and thought we should probably save him.”

“I can’t believe you would think a kid from _Tokyo_ of all places would have no injuries,” the woman says in an exasperated voice. “He’s lucky to survive that.”

“Yeah he is,” says Ukai. 

“It looks like he’s got some serious bruises on his throat. Can ya talk, kid?” the woman asks.

Akaashi can barely open his eyes on his own, so he stays silent.

“That’s what I thought,” the woman says. “He’s got pretty bad head trauma too, that’s probably why he was passed out. Somethin’ banged him up and he was runnin’ from it.”

“So whaddya make of the gun?” Ukai asks.

Akaashi feels panic course through his body. _The gun!_ That was why his fingers closed around nothing. They had taken his gone, probably his dagger and what now? Were they going to shoot him like his classmates? After all that, had he really been taken by the military.

Adrenaline surges through his veins, the sudden notion of needing to escape and Akaashi opens his eyes. 

“Give it. . . back,” he croaks. 

“I was right,” the woman says. She had short, blonde hair and light brown eyes. “Definitely fucked up vocal cords.”

“Don’t shoot me,” Akaashi says. He rolls over and staggers to his feet. 

“Whoa kid,” Ukai begins, a tall, muscular man with dyed golden hair.

“Give me the gun!” Akaashi forces his weight forward and barrels into the woman.

She lands on the floor with an _oof!_ and Akaashi tries to hold her down but feels Ukai’s arms around him before he can threaten her. Akaashi flails around in his arms a bit before Ukai holds him a little tighter, causing him to stop.

“Calm down kid, we’re not gonna hurt you,” Ukai says. “Saeko, you alright?”

Saeko nods. “Little brat. First of all, he took your gun. He’s got a concussion, I’m sure of it. Sedate him and we can fix him up in Kyoto.”

“What?” Akaashi cries and then winces when a shooting pain travels down his spine from speaking. 

Ukai turns and forces him to lie down by pinning his arms to his sides. Akaashi struggles with his legs but it’s pointless and Saeko ends up holding them down anyway. The man holds up a syringe and flicks it. 

“Before I sedate you, kid, d’ya know your name?” Ukai asks.

Akaashi stops struggling. His name. . . it was Akaashi, right? But that’s only his surname, his given name is different. He opens his mouth and is about to say it, but suddenly, he feels the rush of memories.

Sarukui is screaming into his phone. “ _Akaashi! Akaashi! Get out of here!_ ” Akaashi can almost hear the shots as his friend is gunned down and his breath hitches. 

“Ukai, I dunno if he can talk,” Saeko offers. “His vocal cords were crushed, look at the bruises around his neck.” She turns her gaze to Akaashi and it’s softer, gentler now. “You’ve been through hell, kid. Get some rest.”

There’s a prick of pain in Akaashi’s upper arm and he doesn’t fight the anesthesia. 

It’s a blessing, Akaashi thinks, that he had a dreamless sleep. He opens his eyes, just slightly. It’s bright, and his back is against a soft mattress. 

The walls of the room are completely white, save for one large black window in the corner that Akaashi can’t see out of. He looks down to find he’s wearing a white hospital gown too, and there are leather restraints around his hands and an IV hooked into his right forearm. A neck brace surrounds his sore throat, and his head throbs. He looks around dumbly. He can’t seem to remember how he got here, wherever he is. 

The door opens and in walks a beautiful woman with long, blonde hair that’s almost white. She’s young, looks to be in her mid twenties maybe, and is wearing a lab coat over a black shirt, shorts, and long black boots. She sits down with a clipboard, sets it to the desk next to Akaashi, and pushes him against the bed by his shoulders.

Akaashi’s eyes widen and he feels his head spring up with pain as she reaches into her breast pocket and pulls out a flashlight, shining it violently into each of his eyes, just like Saeko.

Saeko? Was that the name of the woman on the helicopter?

When the woman is finished, she gets off of him and begins to speak into what looks like a walkie talkie. 

“He’s cleared. Beginning questioning, over.”

She speaks with an accent and her voice is silky sweet and Akaashi feels goosebumps. She turns her turquoise gaze back to him and sits on the chair adjacent from his bed.

“Hello.” She takes her clipboard in her hands and clicks a pen. “My name is Dr. Haiba and I’m a doctor here at the Resurgence Alliance of Kyoto. You can call me Alisa, though.”

Akaashi wishes he could speak.

“I’m required to give you a briefing of what happened and what you were before coming here. Are you ready for that?” she asks.

Akaashi can only nod.

She places her clipboard in her lap. “Over the past week, strange flying disks have been spotted over various major cities across the world. After their appearance, people begin to go mad and hurt others. At the Resurgence Alliance, we believe it is the result of foreign invasion into the person’s mind. In other words, aliens have descended down to Earth and are taking over by controlling the minds of humans. Do you understand?”

Akaashi nods.

“The giveaway is that these hijacked people seem to lose color in their eyes, and it looks like their pupils have dilated out of control.”

Akaashi feels hands around his neck and is almost staring into pitch-black eyes. The soldier is choking him. He shuts his own eyes and presses himself into the bed, taking slow, deep breaths. He can breath, he can breath. He’s not being strangled by a mad soldier.

“Are you okay?” Alisa asks. 

At the sound of her voice, Akaashi snaps his eyes open. Embarrassed, he nods.

“Okay,” she says. “I’m going to keep going. This process of alien takeover has been. . . slow, more or less, and has given humanity somewhat of a head start. It began in Munich, Germany. The most recent disk showed up in Tokyo, two days ago.”

Two days! Akaashi was sedated for two days? By Saeko’s words, he thought he might be out for a few hours.

“Word spread, and most people began relying on the military for protection. However, in Tokyo, the military was taken over by _them._ ”

Akaashi looks at her quizzically.

“Them, meaning the beings. The leader of the military in Tokyo is said to be hijacked, and acting on the beings’ orders.” She looks at her clipboard and checks something off. “Now to the Resurgence Alliance. The Resurgence Alliance was formed after the first sighting of the disk in Munich. They are secret, well-guarded facilities dedicated to taking down the hijacked and driving out the beings. As of right now, there are nearly twenty-five Resurgence Alliances all over the world. Shall I list them off?”

If Akaashi could speak, he would say no, that there are more interesting things to talk about than how many of these Alliances are stationed around the world, but lucky for him, his vocal cords are destroyed.

Alisa sighs. “Well, I’ll give the most notable ones. The largest Resurgence Alliances are located in Frankfurt, Germany, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, Johannesburg, South Africa, Annapolis, Maryland, and Portsmouth, in the UK. Some of these have funding from the military, some are self-funded. Here in Kyoto, we are self-funded on account of our military being hijacked.”

Akaashi nods helplessly. 

Alisa checks something else off on her clipboard. She flips a page and scans over it and then laughs a little. “I was wondering why you’re so quiet. I’m required to give you a briefing on, yourself, basically, and how you got here. Are you ready?”

Akaashi looks at his hands folded in his lap. 

“You have a vestibular concussion from major head trauma and a fractured larynx from what your doctor says must have been some sort of strangulation. You were found on the verge of unconsciousness a mile or two outside of Fukurodani Academy in Tokyo. You were picked up by Resurgence majors Ukai and Tanaka. It says here you put up a funny little resistance. Good for you.”

She writes something down on her clipboard. “You’ll be wearing a cervical collar for a little longer, at least until you can support your neck. I’m sure you have some questions.”

Akaashi wants to ask what any of this means, why they saved him, and how they plan to continue, but he can’t. He opens his mouth and tries to force words out but it hurts too much and he can’t bring himself to push through it.

Alisa frowns. She turns the piece of paper over on her clipboard and places it on Akaashi’s lap, along with the pen.

“What do you need to say?”

Trembling, Akaashi begins to write. It’s a strangely arduous process, and he can’t remember all of the characters. In messy print, he shows Alisa his writing.

_What happens now?_

“Well,” she begins, “We don’t know how much you remember, but you’re of high importance to the higher-ups in the Alliance. After the Tokyo disk was spotted, the Japanese military was already hijacked and began to escort people into the disk to hijack them. If they were too far away or too young, they were shot. The Resurgence Alliance of Kyoto sent out five choppers to look for survivors but there were almost none.”

Akaashi struggles to write another sentence. _Really, just me out of everyone in Tokyo?_

Alisa shakes her head. “There were a few other survivors, but none as deep into the city as you. The higher-ups want to hear your account, what you saw. When you can talk, of course.”

Akaashi’s running out of space on the paper, he’s writing unnaturally large, but squeezes in one last sentence.

 _I can’t offer you anything_.

Alisa gives a pained smile. “See, we’d like to try that.” She reaches forward and takes the paper and replaces it by turning over another page. “Can you write your name? They have you down as a Taro Yamada, but I don’t think your name is so plain.”

When she sees Akaashi’s confused face she laughs a little. “A nameless boy, that’s what it means. You have a name, don’t you? Can you write it for me?”

His surname is Akaashi. His father and mother both went by the name Akaashi, and it was the name Sarukui screamed through the phone while he was gunned down by the beings.

He’s not sure what the _kanji_ would be, so he writes it out in _hiragana._ He turns the paper so Alisa can see.

Her blue eyes scan over it once, twice. She’s clearly having trouble with his handwriting. 

“Akaa. . . shi. Akaashi,” she says again with more conviction. “Is that all?”

Akaashi struggles and shakes his head as much as the brace will let him. No, that’s not all, he has a given name that’s all his own but for some reason, it’s been muddled in the back of his brain. Why can’t he remember it? He curls his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palms, hoping the pain will bring back _some_ sort of realization but no such luck.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Alisa says softly. “Your concussion is pretty bad, it’s normal to forget some things.”

Akaashi looks at her with his brows furrowed and she sighs and reaches forward, taking one of his hands in hers.

“Don’t worry, Akaashi. It’ll come back to you.” Her eyes drift down to the clipboard in Akaashi’s lap. “I’m going to ask you a few more questions about yourself. If you don’t know the answer, don’t stress over it. Can you write your age on the paper for me?”

His age. . . his age. Akaashi doesn’t quite remember. He’s not an adult, he’s sure of that. But he’s not a kid either. He stares blankly at the paper.

“Do you know?”

Akaashi doesn’t move, staring daggers into the paper. 

“I’ll be right back,” Alisa says and stands up and leaves. If he could’ve spoken, Akaashi would’ve told her to stay, to please just give him a few minutes, he’s been through a lot and his memory is just very foggy right now but he’s serious, his age is in there somewhere. But she’s got her back to him so he can’t reach out to her.

He waits in painful silence, sitting and staring at the piece of paper in front of him. All it reads in _hiragana_ is his surname, Akaashi, absent of his given name. Disappointment wells in his belly, who forgets their own name? He feels like that’s an unnatural symptom even for a concussion patient, but before he can think more about it, Alisa is back.

One hand is behind her back and with the other, she places a small, classroom whiteboard and blue Expo marker in his lap. She brings the other out from behind her back. She’s holding a clothing hanger, which in turn is displaying a gray blazer, white collared shirt, black trousers, and blue striped tie. It looks familiar to Akaashi. 

“You were found in this,” Alisa says. “It’s your school uniform. Fukurodani Academy. This puts you between fifteen to eighteen years old. Does this--”

Akaashi remembers. _Fukurodani Academy_. Sarukui, Komi. They were third-years. And he was a second-year. His birthday, near Christmastime, already passed. . .

Akaashi pops the cap of the marker and writes a shaky _1_ and _7_ on the board. 

“Seventeen,” Alisa reads aloud. She places the uniform on the desk parallel to Akaashi’s bed. “I’m glad you know that. Last question of the day.” She smiles at him.

Akaashi only looks at her expectantly. 

“Do you know the date?”

Date. Akaashi finds the question random. He recalls Alisa saying he’d been out for two days, but he wasn’t even sure of the date before his life went to shit. Date. 

Suddenly, Akaashi remembers lying on grass, contemplating his own existence, wondering why he’d been left alive, thinking. . . in that moment, he remembered that it was such a warm day, and had it been normal, he would’ve wanted to spend it outside. . . it was a beautiful April day.

Akaashi feels Alisa’s hand on his and jolts, realizing he zoned out.

“It’s okay if you don’t know.”

Akaashi shakes his head. He does. In slow writing, he prints _April_ in _hiragana_.

She reads it and a small smile crosses her face. “Right now, it’s Saturday, April twenty-eighth.” Gently, she removes the whiteboard and marker from Akaashi’s hands, places it on the desk, and bows her head slightly. “We’ve been feeding you through IV for the past few days, but tonight you’ll receive a liquid meal. Unfortunately, you’re not able to eat solid food, but you’ll start on that soon.”

Alisa turns and begins leaving through the door. Before she closes it, she dims the light switch and looks at him. “You’ll also be moved to an aboveground room. I’m sorry Akaashi, it’s a little hard to. . . understand the passage of time here. But don’t worry, it’ll happen tomorrow.”

With that, she leaves through the door.

Akaashi falls asleep not long after. There’s a clock in the corner and it has a gentle ticking that lulls him into what he hopes will be a dreamless sleep. He’s afraid if he starts dreaming, he’ll see his mother, Sarukui, Komi, and their clothing stained with blood, bodies riddled with bullet holes.

He wakes up with a start and sees a doctor staring at him. He’s replacing his IV drip and holds in his other hand a covered drink in a plastic cup with a straw. 

“Good morning, Akaashi,” the doctor says. His voice is like Alisa’s, sickly sweet and smooth. In the darkness, Akaashi can’t really gauge his looks. “It’s a little past five in the morning. You slept through the night, that’s a good thing.”

Akaashi turns and looks across the bed at the large blackened window. 

“I’m sorry you’re here,” the doctor continues. “My name is Sugawara Koushi. I’m not a doctor, yet.” He finishes replacing the drip and walks around, sitting next to Akaashi. He folds his hands expectantly, as if waiting for Akaashi to speak.

It occurs to Akaashi that Sugawara isn’t aware of Akaashi’s condition, and Akaashi points to his throat pitifully.

Sugawara laughs. “I know you can’t talk. I just. . . wanted to take a look at you. Out of everyone in Tokyo. . . the only survivor was a kid. I’m only a few years older than you.”

Akaashi cocks his head in confusion. Hadn’t Alisa told him that there were other survivors?

“Oh,” Sugawara says and turns, grabbing the whiteboard. “Dr. Haiba told me to communicate with you like this, my bad for forgetting.”

Akaashi nods and opens the marker, writing, _Alisa said more survivors?_ Akaashi finds it’s a little easier to write than it was yesterday. He can control the size of his characters now and can also write them a little quicker.

“Ah,” Sugawara says, scanning over his words. “There are. But not much. Last night, two were. . . two were found to be hijacked so they were shot. One of them is still unconscious and the other woke up a few hours before you but she was too. . . traumatized to speak.” Sugawara chuckles bitterly. “It’d be a miracle if any of you escape without PTSD.”

 _Five?_ Akaashi writes. 

Sugawara nods. “Yeah. Blew my mind too, out of the nine million people living in Tokyo, five came out of it. And not even. Two were hijacked so three. But we’re not special. A lot of other big cities are taking a huge hit.” He sighs. “Our population is going downhill big-time. But. . . it’s also not. The Resurgence Alliance counts a hijacking as a death, ‘cause there’s no bringing someone back. Technically, most of the residents of Tokyo and other major cities are alive, just. . . not human. I guess it makes sense for them to be marked as dead, then.”

Sugawara stands up. “I’m in charge of moving you, but we’ll do that later in the afternoon.” His eyes dart around the room as if trying to remember. “Oh yes. You’re going to have a screening for a pulmonary edema today too.”

Akaashi gives him a quizzical look.

Sugawara waves his hand. “I doubt you have it. It’s a complication that usually happens to survivors of strangulation, it happens when fluid builds up in the lungs.” He adjusts the straw of the drink in his hand. “It’s rare for those in your condition, don’t worry.” He brings the drink to Akaashi’s lips. “Will you try drinking for me?”

Akaashi narrows his eyes at the liquid.

“It’s a protein shake, don’t worry,” Sugawara says with a laugh. 

Akaashi is still skeptical.

“Here, I’ll prove it’s not anything funky.” He opens the lid and takes a quick drink himself and then seals it back on. “Now your turn.” Sugawara pushes the drink closer to Akaashi’s face.

Akaashi grimaces but Sugawara doesn’t pull away. He looks away, resting his gaze on the opposite side of the room.

Sugawara sighs and removes the drink. “Please, Akaashi. Humor me.” He puts the drink back up to Akaashi’s lips and Akaashi once again turns away.

In truth, Akaashi’s not really hungry. Or thirsty for that matter. Sugawara having a drink from it didn’t really comfort him either. He can remember now, chugging his water on the side of a grassy hill, blood streaming down the back of his head. There’s the sound of a helicopter, he’s teetering on the line between conscious and unconscious. . .

“Okay,” Sugawara says, sounding a bit peeved. “D’you see that big black window?” He points to it, the structure that had captivated Akaashi’s attention when he’d first come to the Alliance.

Akaashi nods slightly, movement restricted by the neck brace.

“That’s not a window,” says Sugawara. “It’s a one-way mirror. And on the other side is a bunch of scientists and generals, all watching you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I'm posting into the void but I really like writing this story so I'm gonna keep going lmao


	3. Chapter 3

Akaashi feels his breath catch.

“They’ve been watching you since you got here,” Sugawara continues, “and they wanna see if you’ll drink this stupid little protein shake or not.”

Akaashi looks at Sugawara with a pained gaze, like he’s just kicked a puppy. He doesn’t like this, he didn’t want to be watched, he thought it was _private_. He realizes that when Alisa spoke into the walkie-talkie that she was probably speaking to the people on the other side. . . watching him. The thought sends a shiver up his spine. 

“Will you drink it now?” Sugawara asks. He presses the straw to Akaashi’s lips, and hesitantly, Akaashi takes a small sip.

It certainly tastes like a protein shake, sickly-sweet and thick. When Akaashi swallows, he feels a jolt of pain down his body, but it hurts less than it could’ve.

Sugawara smiles and exhales. “Good. Thank you, Akaashi. Can you rate how painful it was to swallow, from one to ten? Ten being unbearable.”

Akaashi gives a slight nod of acknowledgement and takes the marker in his hand. He contemplates what his number should be and finally settles on a shakily-written _seven_.

“Seven,” Sugawara reads aloud. “I suppose that’s better than a ten. Okay,” he says, “I’m not gonna make you finish it if it hurts that much. The IV will provide you with enough nutrients but. . .” His eyes dart to the one-way mirror. “You’ll have to get up to go to the bathroom soon.” He reaches forward and runs his fingers through Akaashi’s hair, brushing his bangs out of his face. “How about you get some sleep, hm? I’ll be back to help you out of bed and move you aboveground.”

Akaashi’s cheeks warm at Sugawara’s domestic touch, and he doesn’t write anything. When Sugawara leaves, he turns the lights all the way off, although Akaashi doubts he’ll be able to sleep knowing his movements are being meticulously tracked.

To his feigned surprise, he’s unable to sleep. He doesn’t like not having full mobility of his neck and he would like to take the neck brace off, but the IV drip is making him rather lethargic and he feels little motivation to bring his hand up to his throat to fumble with it. However, every time he closes his eyes, he feels the eyes of whoever is behind the mirror staring into him. 

He feels like he’s going crazy. He can’t sleep, all he can do is stare into nothingness as the clock ticks away. Eventually, he takes the Expo marker in his hand and begins to practice his writing. He feels like a Westerner learning Japanese, stumbling over the complicated characters and struggling to remember their meanings. Some of his characters look comically bad while others look a little too perfect, like they haven’t been written by a human but a computer trying to imitate a handwriting font. Akaashi does this until the characters blur together and he feels dizzy. 

By the time it hurts to look at anything written, Sugawara returns, with Alisa this time. 

“Good morning, Akaashi,” Alisa says with a slight bow. “Sugawara says you slept through the night. I’m glad.”

Akaashi taps the top of his wrist, wondering how long it’s been. There's an analog clock on the side of the wall, but with Akaashi's concussion-induced vision, it's hard to make out the numbers.

“Ah,” Alisa says, and checks her watch. “It’s nearly eight in the morning. We’re here to help you go to the bathroom.”

Akaashi furrows his brows and shakes his head slightly. He doesn’t really have to go, and getting out of bed seems like a bother anyway. Sure, his bottom aches from being in the same position for hours, but it’s much better than it could’ve been.

“Sorry, Akaashi,” Sugawara says. “You don’t have a choice.”

Akaashi looks frantically at him and then at the mirror, trying to nonverbally ask him if he’s being watched.

Sugawara shakes his head. “There’s no one there, promise.”

“He’s right,” Alisa says and Akaashi looks at her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want to frighten you, you’d certainly seen some shit. Now,” she says, taking one of Akaashi’s hands in her own, “let’s get you out of bed, shall we?”

Akaashi shakes his head slightly. He tears his hand from hers and writes as nicely as he can on the whiteboard, _I don’t have to go_.

“At least walk then,” Sugawara says. “It’s been two, three days since you’ve walked. That’s not healthy, Akaashi. Especially in this. . . time.”

“Come on kid,” Alisa says. She snatches Akaashi’s whiteboard, effectively cutting off his communication. “It’s not so bad.” 

Akaashi exhales slowly. He purses his lips before giving as best a nod as he can. He stretches his legs before pushing himself forward with his palms and swinging them over the side of the bed. On the other side, Sugawara rolls his IV close to him and he reaches out for Alisa’s hands.

She takes them and he lets his feet touch the cold floor gingerly, one at a time. His muscles feel weak and he’s disappointed in himself for not being able to do such a basic thing as walking. 

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Alisa says. “You’ve been bedridden for a while. We’ll take it slow.”

Akaashi’s eyes meet hers as if to acknowledge her statement and he rests his weight fully on his feet.

At first, he stumbles forward and Alisa catches him. Then, he gathers himself and takes a single step forward. 

He’s dizzy, really dizzy. He’s not sure if this is a side effect of his concussion or just the blood rushing down his body, but he feels faint. He doesn’t want to let himself pass out, but to his dismay he subconsciously slumps against Alisa.

“He’s a little lightheaded,” Alisa says to Sugawara. “Check his fluids.”

“Got it,” Sugawara says.

Akaashi is taking slow breaths against Alisa’s shoulder, sweat beading on his forehead. His mouth is dry and cold, his legs feel like twigs. His neck, previously fine, is now sending stalks of pain up and down his body, and he is beginning to see spots.

“Okay,” Alisa says, her voice raising a little, “okay.” She slowly lowers Akaashi back on the bed so he lies across it, feet still touching the floor. “Catch your breath, kid.”

Akaashi rests his head on the sheets, looking at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes. He prays Alisa and Sugawara were telling the truth when they said there was no one watching him. He feels sick, but more than that, he feels humiliated. His stomach is in his throat and he’s close to vomiting.

“We’re gonna try again in a little,” Alisa says. “Sugawara, go get a cold washcloth and replace his drip.” 

Sugawara nods and is off, and Alisa sits down next to him, the bed caving a little with her weight. She brushes the hair out of Akaashi’s face, matted to his skin with sweat. Akaashi shuts his eyes, heat rising to his cheeks. 

“You’ll get it eventually, kid,” Alisa says. She pauses, removes her hand, and speaks again. “Do you. . . happen to remember your given name at all?”

Akaashi opens his eyes. From his position with the neck brace, he can’t really shake his head, so he only looks away. He knows that’s answer enough.

“Oh,” Alisa says. “It’s alright. It’ll come back to you.”

Sugawara returns with a new IV bag and wet washcloth. He replaces Akaashi’s fluids while Alisa dabs the washcloth on Akaashi’s forehead and cheeks. She looks to Sugawara. 

“I think we should take his brace off soon.” It’s an offhand comment but Akaashi catches it anyway. He’s been waiting to part with his neck brace, but he knows he’ll be expected to hold his neck by himself and, based on how his progress with walking went, he doesn’t want to subject himself to the humiliation of not being able to balance your own neck.

Sugawara hesitates. “If you say so.”

Alisa frowns. “What’s with that response? You’re my assistant, just listen to what I have to say.”

“Fine,” Sugawara says, “but I think he’s kinda reliant on the things helping him right now.” He gently squeezes the bag. “Like the IV fluids, the bed, that stuff.”

“He’s got a fractured larynx, not a broken spine,” says Alisa. “I didn’t approve of them putting on the neck brace in the first place. It’s too. . . coddly.”

“Coddly?” Sugawara repeats. “I think we should wait ‘til he can talk so he can tell us what he’s been through. Then we’ll decide if we’re being too coddly.” He pauses. “Coddly. Is that even a word?”

Alisa exhales and Akaashi feels her frustration. “Akaashi, do you feel ready? It’s time to walk.”

Akaashi nods slightly and Alisa smiles. “Good. Come on, Sugawara.”

Slowly, Akaashi heaves himself up. He takes a moment, eyes focused on the ground, gathering himself. He’s upright, he thinks to himself, and he’s not feeling faint. He’s not feeling faint. He lets his feet touch the floor, still just as cold as it was a few minutes ago. He grips his IV stand with one hand, pushing it along himself. He takes one, two steps forward. 

“Good, good,” Alisa says. “The bathroom is just through that door.” She points to the right and Akaashi notices a white door blending in with the walls. “It’s a few more steps. But you’re doing great.”

Akaashi would nod if he could. All he does is keep walking, one foot in front of the other, until he stands at the door. Sugawara opens it, revealing a small room with a urinal in one corner, a toilet, a sink beneath a small, round mirror. He escorts him in, leaving Alisa outside, and brings him to the toilet.

“Why don’t you sit for now?” he asks. “Are you feeling okay?”

Akaashi’s eyes flicker to him, trying to communicate that he feels fine. He sits on the toilet and is surprised to learn he actually _did_ have to go. Sugawara laughs a little, and in the light, Akaashi examines him. He can see the man’s features better than he could this morning, he’s handsome, with gray hair and light brown eyes. He catches Akaashi staring, and he looks away, a little embarrassed. 

“Done?” Sugawara asks and Akaashi prays he means with the bathroom. 

When Sugawara brings him to the sink, Akaashi washes his hands and then makes the mistake of looking up at himself in the mirror. He stops, finally seeing his own appearance. He suddenly realizes how pitiful he looks. His cheeks are hollow and sunken, his skin; pale, his eyes; dull and lifeless. His hair looks greasy and unkempt and he wants to take a long shower. Akaashi remembers his appearance before this all happened and he feels grief at his own looks. Why does he look so unpleasant? He never looked like this before. He can't fight the tear running down his cheek.

“Akaashi, what’s wrong?” Sugawara asks but all Akaashi can look at is his own unsightly presence.

“Let’s go,” Sugawara says, tapping gently on Akaashi’s back to get him moving. Akaashi breaks away from his trance and follows him out the door.

Alisa and Sugawara walk him back to his bed, but he’s able to stand up a little straighter by that time. He has to admit, it felt really good to walk and go to the bathroom like humans do even though he doesn’t feel much like a human anymore.

“I’ll be back this afternoon to move you,” Sugawara says. “You’ll have your edema screening and then be moved aboveground. That room is being prepared, and it also doesn’t have. . .” He points to the large black window, “this. You won’t be watched anymore.”

Akaashi looks at him earnestly, trying to communicate his gratitude. 

“Sugawara,” Alisa says, “let’s take off that neck brace.”

Akaashi furrows his brow and tries to tell Sugawara that it might be a bad idea, that he was pretty bad at walking, so this shouldn’t be much better but Sugawara only looks at her with a blank expression. 

There’s nothing he really does to help, only watches as Alisa undoes the straps and slowly removes it. Akaashi’s neck feels so smooth and cold, and he feels like his skin is withering away. But he doesn’t feel as stiff, and it doesn’t hurt as much. Perhaps Alisa was right in assuming he didn't need it.

Alisa holds his head in her hands, slowly turning it around. “If it hurts, tap my wrist,” she says. As she turns, it doesn’t particularly hurt compared to what Akaashi thought, so he reaches up and touches his neck slightly. There’s nothing wrapped around it, and Akaashi’s a bit confused--shouldn’t a fractured larynx warrant some sort of cast?

“It’s bare ‘cause you didn’t need anything, technically,” Alisa explains as if reading his mind. “The best way to treat that kind of injury is bedrest for a few days, which you’ve had, and lots of fluids, which I hope you’ve had.” She looks accusingly at Sugawara and Akaashi’s afraid they’ll start arguing again.

Sugawara clears his throat. “It’s still gonna hurt to eat but your voice should be back soon. Your concussion symptoms will last a little longer, but you’ll recover.”

Akaashi’s eyes flicker between him and Alisa, trying to ask how long.

“Maybe another month,” Sugawara says a little regrettably. “Your memory and balance should come back to you within the week, but you’ll experience a lot of headaches between now and mid-to-late May. It’ll be--” Just then, there’s a beeping.

“Pager?” Alisa asks, tilting Akaashi’s head back on the bed and releasing him. “Sugawara?”

Sugawara doesn’t answer. He’s looking at his pager with a pale face, eyes wide. Alisa’s pager goes off as well, and when she checks it, she brings a hand to her mouth.

“We have to go,” she says, standing up. “You might be moved aboveground a little later.” With that, they sprint off behind the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My country kinda falling apart so I've been writing this as a comfort lol


	4. Chapter 4

Akaashi sits in the room, back and head against his bed, legs still swung over it. He has a bad feeling, and he hopes it won’t be like picking up a call from Sarukui and listening as he’s shot to death. He’s not going to sit by again, not like he did. 

He takes hold of his IV stand and props himself up, gradually turning his neck in as many directions as possible. He’s come to realize that it doesn’t really hurt to move his neck in the same way it hurts to swallow, eat, or speak.

Akaashi pushes his IV along the floor, reaching the entrance. He hesitates before opening it--all he’s known is this room, for now. He doesn’t have the faintest clue where he is, only that he’s in an underground hospital room in a compromised military base. He twists the knob.

In their haste, Alisa and Sugawara failed to lock the door behind them, which Akaashi is grateful for. He pushes the door open and makes his way out.

The hall is dark, illuminated by thin emergency lights around the top. Winding pipes on the ceiling go in all directions, and there’s a ton of other doors, likely leading to emergency care rooms just like his. He looks left, right, and catches the tag on the wall next to his door.

_Patient 35  
Taro Yamada - “Akaashi” (17)  
TKY CLEAR_

It takes him a bit too long to read the words, even his own name, and as he is, he hears echoing. Voices, from down the hall. Akaashi hobbles in the direction. 

It’s not walking so much as holding on to his IV stand as it rolls down the hall. The lighting never gets better, but Akaashi is grateful for that, since it isn’t hurting his eyes. He’s closer to the voices now, he can make out what they’re saying. 

“Who was it?” Akaashi instantly recognizes Sugawara’s voice.

“Don’t know.” This voice is deeper, another man’s.

“Someone from Tokyo.” A woman this time. 

“Alisa won’t let me in,” Sugawara says.

“They paged all of us,” the girl says. “Why wouldn’t they let us in?”

Akaashi stands still, one hand gripping his IV stand and the other against the wall. _Tokyo_.

Just then, Akaashi hears a door barge open and a hundred shouting voices all at once. He presses his back to the wall instinctively as they rush out. 

“Haiba, secure your boy!” Akaashi hears, and panics. He starts to turn, to make his way back to his room as quickly as he can but it’s too late.

“Akaashi!” Alisa’s voice. “Akaashi!”

Akaashi turns and makes brief eye contact with her before walking as fast as he can down the hall. 

Of course, Alisa and Sugawara have the upper hand, considering their larynxes and brains are intact. 

“What the hell are you doing out?” Sugawara yells, grabbing one of his hands. 

“Shut up, Sugawara,” Alisa hisses. “We’ll yell at him later.”

There’s a sudden rush and Akaashi turns as a swarm of doctors pass him, pushing a hospital bed and IV down the hall for his room. Through the crowd, Akaashi can’t see much of the bed’s contents other than a large individual with a ventilator over _his_ \--Akaashi confirms they’re a _him_ \--mouth.

Akaashi turns, looks at Sugawara with wide eyes.

“I wish I knew what was going on,” Sugawara shouts, leading him down the hallway. “Haiba. . .”

Alisa shakes her head. “We’re nearly there.”

The crowd of doctors with the bed reaches there first, and when they realize Akaashi is missing, there’s cries of concern. Sweat slips down Akaashi’s cheek and he wants to throw up.

“We’re here!” Alisa yells. “Akaashi’s here!”

“Get him over here!” a tall man with a cross expression demands. Alisa and Sugawara obey, and soon Akaashi is standing over the hospital bed with a full view of the person in it.

He’s a boy, probably around Akaashi’s age, with wild black-and-white hair. His eyes are wide open, startlingly amber, and he stares at the ceiling. His mouth is covered by a clear breathing mask attached to a ventilator and Akaashi notices he’s got no IV attached to his arm.

“Haiba,” the tall man says, “brief on Taro Yamada, please.”

“Yes sir,” Alisa says, breathless. “Taro Yamada, surname Akaashi, survivor of Tokyo, seventeen years old. Suffered a vestibular concussion and fractured larynx, remains unable to speak, heavily reliant on IV fluids. Cannot remember his given name and shows poor balance, PTSD likely.”

“Good,” the man says. “Now for our young man in the bed. Yaku?”

The man called Yaku, with short strawberry-blonde hair and brown eyes, bows his head. “Bokuto Koutarou, escapee from Yokota Air Base, eighteen years old. Picked up by surveillance marshals Ukai Keishin and Tanaka Saeko after going rogue in a rescue mission. No visible injuries, unsure mental state.”

“Yaku,” the tall man says harshly.

Yaku hesitates. “Yuh. . . yes sir. Found yesterday morning unconscious, brought to the Resurgence Alliance of Kyoto and regained consciousness. Told. . . he told. . .” Yaku hesitates. “Information about human experimentation at the base. There were. . . are. . . people who may be able to infiltrate the minds of others and revive the hijacked.”

Akaashi hears Sugawara draw in a breath.

“Although,” Yaku continues, “it has yet to be shown to the scientists at the Resurgence Alliance. The patient claims to have done it to survive after he escaped the hijacking of the Tokyo military and, resulting, the hijacking of the American military personnel at the base. He says he can’t stay for long and is unable to infiltrate again for as long as half an hour. The experiments had not been perfected when the military was hijacked, hence their incompletion.”

“And what does that mean?” the tall man asks, running a hand through his blonde hair. “Tsukishima.”

Another tall blonde doctor standing at the foot of the bed bristles. 

“We will try to have Bokuto infiltrate Akaashi’s mind.”

“And why Akaashi instead of, say, you?”

Tsukishima stares at Bokuto. Akaashi sees how Bokuto remains blank, still staring up at the ceiling with his fierce golden eyes. 

“Because Akaashi has something missing in his mind and we don’t. The patient cannot infiltrate another’s mind unless their mind is weak and unstable. Akaashi has a weak mind right now. Similar to how the hijacked.”

The tall doctor nods. “Precisely.”

“Sir,” Alisa says next to Akaashi, “how do we know if your patient will infiltrate his mind? What has to be done? With all due respect, my patient is physically injured too, he can’t--”

“He knows,” the tall man says, cutting off Alisa. He takes a step closer to Bokuto, removes the mask around his mouth. Bokuto opens it, just slightly, and blinks once, twice, looking around. It was almost as if he was in a trance earlier and is just now coming to.

“Bokuto,” the tall man says. “Can you hear me? How do you feel?”

Bokuto looks at him with wide eyes. “I’m ready, Dr. Tsukishima.” He gives a small smile, and Akaashi is afraid he’s reassuring himself more than the others in the room. “Are they hijacked? Is that what I have to do?”

The tall man, named Tsukishima like the other one, Akaashi notices, shakes his head. He turns and takes Akaashi’s wrist, pulling him nearer to Bokuto. 

Akaashi’s eyes meet Bokuto’s raw amber gaze and he feels like a deer caught in headlights. His eyes are like the sun in the way they reflect positivity and hope and Akaashi feels embarrassed for making Bokuto gaze upon his dreary blue ones. Bokuto blinks as he looks at him and heat rises to Akaashi’s face.

“This is Akaashi,” says Tsukishima. He looks at Akaashi. “Akaashi, Bokuto Koutarou.”

“Hi, Akaashi,” Bokuto says with a smile.

Akaashi only regards him, giving him what little of a smile he can offer back.

“Akaashi survived the hijacking of Tokyo city,” Tsukishima explains. “Unfortunately, he fractured his larynx, so he can’t speak. He also received a major concussion and has yet to remember his given name. This is your mission, Bokuto. Infiltrate his mind and recover his given name. Is this possible?”

Bokuto brows turn up at Akaashi and Akaashi realizes he’s pitying him. “Yeah. I’ll do it.”

He looks at Akaashi intensely, and Akaashi thinks he sees his amber eyes almost glow. Then, they roll back into his head and Akaashi’s knees buckle. He feels people catch him but he can’t hear anything and suddenly, all he sees is darkness.

Akaashi opens his eyes. His first thought is that he’s lying on cold dirt and then he realizes he’s in a grassy open plain. Gray storm clouds paint the sky and a breeze tosses up his hair. Akaashi sits up. He’s still wearing his hospital gown when he examines himself. As he’s turning his arms over, looking at them, he notices a small red dot on his forearm. 

Akaashi stands up, begins to wander this plain. Thunder rumbles and the wind rustles the grass but Akaashi doesn’t really pay attention. He lets his fingers wander along the tips of the tall yellow grasses as he walks, feels the dirt beneath his bare feet. It’s almost. . . peaceful.

“Akaashi.”

Akaashi hears a voice and turns around. When he sees Bokuto, he jumps. 

Bokuto is flying, really levitating, over the grass. His hands are folded calmly behind his head and he appears to be in a lax position. “Like it?”

“Like what?” Akaashi asks instinctively and then covers his mouth, reeling at the sound of his own voice. It’s no mistake--he can speak again. His hand flies to his neck and he pushes down on it, relishing in how it doesn’t hurt.

Bokuto laughs but it’s not sarcastic or jeering. It’s a real, genuine laugh. “You’re in your own mind. Isn’t that cool?”

“I. . . don’t understand,” Akaashi says slowly. “How?”

“Well,” Bokuto begins with a smile. “It’s complicated, really, and I don’t understand everything. I’ve been in a ton of minds, uhm, recently. From what I’ve gathered, everyone’s has a different landscape and it. . . sorta reflects their mental state, I guess. This is yours.”

Akaashi looks around. A grassy plain with rolling hills and an incoming storm. “Oh.” He looks back at Bokuto. “What happens now?”

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says thoughtfully. “Hm. . . Akaashi, Akaashi, Akaashi.”

“What?”

“Is that your name?”

“Yes,” Akaashi says.

“Your full name is Akaashi Akaashi?”

“Wha--no,” Akaashi says. “My full name is. . . uhm. . .” Suddenly, Akaashi hears a loud voice from over the hills.

“Akaashi! Akaashi!”

Akaashi turns, bringing his hands to his face. “What the hell is that?” There’s no mistaking that voice, Akaashi hears it every time someone utters his name.

“Get out of here!”

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says, voice wavering. “It’s just a memory. It can’t hurt you.”

Akaashi turns to him. “Why? What the hell is wrong with me?”

“There’s no point!” the hills scream. They’re louder than the first time, Sarukui’s voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

“Akaashi, listen to me,” Bokuto begins, voice wavering. “I need you to think real hard right now.”

Akaashi falls to his knees, holding his head. “Sarukui died because of me,” he whispers. “He. . . they all did.” He can’t think, can’t have words run through his head without them leading back to Sarukui, and it’s suffocating. It’s worse than a fractured larynx, a vestibular concussion, anything. He can’t breathe.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto continues. Akaashi feels a hand on his head and he looks up to see Bokuto flying just above him, reaching out to him. “What’s your name, Akaashi?”

“Akaashi, it’s Akaashi!” Akaashi cries back in answer, lower lip trembling. 

The hills continue to scream at him, Sarukui’s voice echoing out over the grass. “They’re gonna kill us!” 

In retaliation, Akaashi buries his fingers in his hair, squeezing his temples. It’s echoing in his brain, this _is_ his brain, there’s no way out, he’s trapped with Sarukui’s dying words bouncing back and force, accomplishing nothing.

“Akaashi!” Bokuto calls, his voice louder now. “Akaashi, focus!”

“Stop stop!” Akaashi screams over the echoes. “I can’t. . . I can’t fucking focus!”

“They didn’t wanna take us to safety!”

“Shut up!” Akaashi cries, both to the hills and Bokuto. “Shut up!”

“What’s your name, Akaashi?” Bokuto is yelling now. The wind is picking up, the thunder too. “Akaashi!”

“Dead, dead!” The hills again, rattling into Akaashi’s mind mercilessly, like the sound of blood itself.

Akaashi screams, shutting his eyes. He screams so loud his throat burns when he’s done and his ears ring. He draws in another breath.

“Akaashi, your given name?” Bokuto yells back, clearly ignoring him.

“All dead!”

“Akaashi!”

Akaashi screams again, as loud as he can, and for a moment, everything is drowned out. Sarukui’s voice and Bokuto’s is gone, the thunder and sound of grass against wind blends to nothingness. 

Akaashi opens his eyes and he’s not in the plain of his mind. He’s at school, on a cloudy day in late April, tired and unprepared for his calculus test. His homeroom teacher walks in, gives the class a good morning, and Akaashi stands and bows with the rest of his classmates. His muscles move on their own and he feels like a stranger in his own body, like he’s watching himself in third person. Then, his teacher begins taking attendance. 

“Say here please,” his teacher says. As he’s going off names, Akaashi feels his brain empty, his thoughts are a melted ice cube. He stares blankly at the chalkboard, listening to the names of his classmates and their responses. The words enter his brain and just as quickly as they come, they’re immediately cast out. He doesn’t pay attention. He doesn’t have to. Time has no meaning to him, not now, the before and after is stupid and unnecessary, it only comes and goes. 

“Akaashi Keiji?”

That is the only constant. 

Akaashi blinks once, twice. _Akaashi Keiji. Akaashi Keiji._ His eyes dart around the room and he inhales sharply. “Here,” he says as surely as he can. “I’m here.” _That person_. It’s as if he’s finally plugged a leaky ceiling, the droplets of water no longer falling on him while he sleeps. Akaashi Keiji is him. He is Akaashi Keiji. 

How could he have ever forgotten?

And as he’s thinking that, scolding himself for forgetting something so crucial to his being, Akaashi feels the room begin to fade, and then he’s falling, falling and he shuts his eyes and opens them just as quickly, back to the rolling grasslands.

His heart is pounding, his mind is running a mile a minute. He repeats it over and over to himself under his breath.

“Akaashi?” 

Akaashi looks up to see Bokuto still floating a few feet above the grass, concern all over his face. 

“I know it!” Akaashi cries. “Keiji! Akaashi Keiji, that’s my name!”

“Akaashi Keiji,” Bokuto says. “That’s so cool. Your name’s great, Akaashi!”

“Keiji, Keiji,” Akaashi repeats, afraid his moment of clarity will be lost to his mind again, this time forever. “Holy shit, holy shit. What did. . . did I do that, did _you_ do that?”

Bokuto shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I’ve only ever done this kinda thing on hijacked people,” Bokuto says. “It’s very easy. You enter their mindspace and you have to fight off the second person on their land.”

Akaashi blinks. “What?”

Bokuto motions to him, standing on the dirt. “You’re the only one allowed to touch the ground of your mind. That’s why I’m up here!”

“But how. . . how did you get the memory?”

Bokuto blinks. “What memory?”

“The memory,” Akaashi says frantically, “the one of me in class, my teacher took role and I. . . heard my name. How did that happen?”

“I don’t know,” Bokuto says. “I was winging this when I went into it.”

Akaashi blinks. “What?”

Bokuto tilts his head. “I only know how to recover hijacked people. Not how to. . . find missing memories or whatever.” His eyes narrow and he sticks out his lower lip. “I don’t know how this happened to be honest.” He shrugs. “Oh well. It happened.” He holds out a hand and motions for Akaashi to take it. “Okay. Take my hand and jump real high, got it?”

Akaashi nods, slowly placing his hand in Bokuto’s. 

“Ready and. . . jump!”

Akaashi’s eyes snap open and he gasps, sitting upright in his hospital bed. His throat throbs and his head feels like an elephant stepped on it. He can hear the remnants of his voice as he gasps for air. He looks around at the doctors surrounding him, notices how Bokuto’s bed is next to his. 

Just then, a whiteboard is shoved into his lap. 

“Akaashi?” This is Alisa’s voice and she hands him the Expo marker. She doesn’t ask the question, everyone’s already thinking it.

Akaashi nods slowly, eyes not leaving hers. He wants to speak, wants to hear himself be the first to utter his given name, not Alisa who he’s known for two days. 

Pain zips down his body when he opens his mouth. “Keiji.” His voice is so crackly it might as well be inhuman and it’s obvious no one heard or understood his speech. His throat is even more sore but he doesn’t care. Slowly, he takes the marker and writes his name out in as perfect _kanji_ as he can muster.

 _Keiji_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all your sweet comments, I love reading them <3


	5. Chapter 5

Alisa reads his name aloud and everyone else takes it in silently, looking around. It’s not so much the name that matters, Akaashi realizes, but the fact that Bokuto was successful. He decides not to tell them that Bokuto was winging it. 

“How was it?” Alisa asks slowly. 

Akaashi blinks and looks down at his whiteboard. It’s too much to write and he wouldn’t be able to fit it anyway. Instead, he simply writes _good._

Murmurs spread throughout the doctors as they turn to each other. There are a few snickers.

“Elaborate!” someone from the back says and Akaashi can’t make out the owner of the voice.

“Don’t,” Alisa says, more to the person from the back than Akaashi. “It’s too much to write. You’ll tell us in a few days when you can speak, yeah?”

Akaashi nods. He turns his head to see Bokuto, still unconscious, hooked up to the ventilator this time.

Tsukishima turns to his crowd of doctors. “Bokuto stays in Akaashi’s room until further notice. Round the clock watches. Haiba, Sugawara, make sure Akaashi is walking, talking, eating, all that as soon as possible.”

“May I ask why, sir?” Sugawara asks, and when the doctor gives him a miffed look, he speaks again. “Recovery is important sir, and I want to make sure he isn’t rushed back to the world. He needs to be reintroduced as gradually as possible.”

Tsukishima clicks his tongue. “I’ll report this information to the commanders and they’ll have a plan for Akaashi.” He brings up a clipboard and scribbles something down. “To answer your question, Sugawara, this is on their time, not yours.” He turns to the rest of his doctors. “Everyone, dismissed.”

As the doctors file out, Alisa looks at Akaashi sympathetically. “I’m glad you know your name.”

Akaashi gives her a half-hearted smile. He looks at Bokuto and then at her, points to him curiously.

“Oh,” she says. “He’s not hurt. His vitals were final, but his heart rate dipped at one point, so they put him back on the ventilator. I’m not sure when he’ll wake up.”

Akaashi frowned, observing Bokuto’s sleeping figure, his chest as it rose and fell. A thought struck him, and he wrote on his whiteboard quickly.

_Are they watching us?_

Alisa scanned the characters and nodded, almost grimly. “They’re very curious, and so am I. There’s lots of rumors that Bokuto is part of a bigger plan to revive humanity. And that is the ultimate goal of the Resurgence Alliance.”

“I heard he’s a German,” Sugawara offers, rolling an IV stand with a bag of fluids, presumably for Bokuto. “That he was sent here by the Resurgence Alliance of Frankfurt but was intercepted by the hijacked Japanese military before he could reach us.”

“That’s bullshit,” Alisa says. “Why would they send him to Kyoto of all places? It’s not like we’re making great strides or anything. He’s better off in Portsmouth or something.”

Sugawara shrugs, dabbing the soft interior of Bokuto’s elbow with an alcohol wipe. “Maybe we’re better. They don’t tell us anything.”

“I know,” Alisa says, “but I feel like we’d know _that_ much.”

Sugawara frowns, inserting the needle into his elbow. “I don’t know. I’m a little. . .” he lowers his voice, “scared.”

“Of Tsukishima?”

Sugawara shakes his head. “No. The generals and soldiers and stuff. The military parts of the Resurgence Alliance seem. . . shady.”

Alisa snickers. “I mean, where else are you gonna go? Not like we’ve got a lot of options.”

“I know,” Sugawara says briskly. “Doesn’t mean I can’t have an opinion on what I’ve got.”

“I don’t feel like arguing with you,” Alisa says with a small sigh as she stands up. “Akaashi Keiji, would you like to walk around a bit with us?”

Akaashi blinks.

“Us?” Sugawara asks. “What about Bokuto?”

“I’ll page Sawamura to keep an eye on him. I’d like to show Akaashi around a bit. Take him outside. Would you like that?” she asks and Akaashi nods. It’s been far too long since he’s been outside.

“Alright, I’ll come,” Sugawara says as Alisa is helping him out of bed. 

Alisa laughs. “You don’t have a choice, Sugawara. It was you who said he should be reintroduced gradually.”

There’s a pause and Sugawara walks over, standing next to Alisa. “Is. . . is Daichi coming in?”

“Sawamura? Yeah, I paged him a minute ago. He should be here shortly.”

There’s a knock at the door and Alisa smiles. “Speak of the devil. Come in, Sawamura!”

The door opens and in steps two people, a tall, broad man with tan skin and brown hair and a shorter woman with a pretty face and short, dark hair. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” the man says. “I brought Yui along. She wanted to see Bokuto and Akaashi too.”

“Hi Sawamura,” Sugawara says peppily. He bows to the woman. “Michimiya.”

The woman, Michimiya, smiles and waves. Then, she turns her gaze to Akaashi. “Wow, Akaashi, it’s. . . insane to meet you. When your, uhm, larynx heals up, make sure to find me, okay? I want to hear everything.”

Daichi elbows her and she frowns, rubbing her upper arm. “I’m sorry, she’s very interested in all. . . this. She was gonna major in neuroscience, y’know?” He says this to everyone, not just Akaashi. “Before. . . _this_ happened.”

“Ah,” Alisa says. She hesitates before speaking again. “Sugawara and I are taking Akaashi here on a little tour of the complex. Your job is to keep an eye on Bokuto and if he wakes up, make sure his IV is full and he’s okay. There are doctors on the other side of the mirror but I still want you to page me if something happens. Got it?”

Daichi and Michimiya nod stiffly. Akaashi grips the cold metal of his IV stand, turning before he can look once more at Bokuto’s sleeping figure, or Daichi and Michimiya examining him like an animal.

“Clearly,” Alisa begins, “you’ve already seen the hall.”

“You’re lucky you’re special,” Sugawara says. “I got punished the first time I--”

“Sugawara,” Alisa cuts him off. Akaashi hears him swallow and he nods from next to him. “Let’s, uhm, go this way. We’ll see the chief’s office, but we can’t go in.”

Akaashi looks at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Dr. Tsukishima Akiteru,” Alisa says. “The tall one, no glasses. The tall one with glasses is Dr. Tsukishima Kei, his younger brother.”

Akaashi looks at the ground as they walk. So they did keep families in here. Akaashi doesn’t have any siblings but if he did, he wonders what he would’ve done. Could he have saved them? Or would they have died, just like. . .

His mind grows fuzzy and he feels another dizzy spell coming on. He stumbles a bit, and Sugawara catches him.

“You okay?” he asks. “Wanna go back?”

Akaashi shakes his head, shutting his eyes. His mother’s voice is echoing in his head, she’s speaking calmly like she was on her last phone call, waiting for the military to pick her up, unaware they’d already been compromised. He tells himself he’s not in Fukurodani Academy anymore, that it already happened. His mother is dead, and he can’t change it.

He opens his eyes, drawing in a small breath, throat hurting slightly. He shakes his head, straightening his posture. He feels Sugawara’s wary eyes on him, he knows that the man doesn’t trust his judgement. Akaashi barely even trusts it himself, but he knows this much.

“Okay,” Alisa says. “The chief’s office is just down here.”

They arrive at a large metal door with bolted hinges and a window so tinted it can’t be seen through. The nameplate next to it reads in bolded letters,

_Chief Tsukishima Akiteru  
MYG CLEAR_

Akaashi recalls the three letters on his own nameplate, _TKY_ , and reaches up to touch the _MYG_ letters on Tsukishima’s. He looks to Alisa, silently demanding an explanation.

“The nameplates are a little more specific than they were before,” she says. “For patients and soldiers, it gives their full name and age. The second line is their place of origin, either where they were picked up or where they arrived from, and their hijacking status. Clear is human and compro is nonhuman, or hijacked.”

“Yours said Tokyo,” Sugawara offers. “Just abbreviated. His says Miyagi.”

 _Miyagi_. Akaashi remembers driving through the mountainous landscape on school trips, but other than that, he’s never been. He looks away, satisfied enough. 

“We’ll move on then,” Alisa says as Akaashi subtly takes the lead. They reach a few more intersections with markers directing them to certain areas, but Alisa tells Akaashi they’re headed for the elevator. Akaashi’s led down the hallway for another few minutes. He notices there’s more offices and rooms, but he’s got no way to ask what they are. It’s not like he really cares anyway.

“The military complex makes up most of the aboveground section. We scientists and scholars are forced underground,” Sugawara says, bitter on the last part as they enter into the elevator. It’s a worn, rickety device that looks a lot older than it should be, with pipes and wires snaking around it like the halls. “There’s a few hospital rooms and labs up there, though.”

“They’re reserved for important personnel, and that was where you were going,” supplies Alisa.

Even if Akaashi had his voice, he wouldn’t have responded to that. He only shifts uncomfortably as the elevator dings, signalling they’ve reached the aboveground. 

“Oh,” Alisa says before the doors open. “Here.” She reaches into her breastpocket and pulls out a pair of tinted glasses. “I’m not sure if you’ll need them, but it’s been a little bit since you’ve seen real sunlight.”

Akaashi takes them hesitantly and puts them on. They’re not necessarily sunglasses so much as clear lenses that have been darkened. He feels a bit embarrassed when he puts them on, but when he sees the layout, he suddenly understands.

He notices that he’s on the second floor from the ground, not the first, from the view. The building makes up a massive semicircle, and in the middle is a patch of concrete that has soldiers drilling in the outdoors. He sees all of this from the massive thick glass windows lining the inside of the semicircle from the ground up, letting sunlight paint the level from wall to wall.

Directly in front of the large concrete patch in the middle is an impressive array of fighter planes lined up facing a long, worn-down runway. There’s more than just soldiers drilling outside too, he can spot doctors in white lab coats speaking to high-ranking officials, who are wearing different military uniforms decorated with medals. 

The inside is just as bustling, with people in uniform walking together, speaking in quiet voices, footsteps resounding throughout the gray walls. Despite their quiet tones, it’s still louder than the underground sector. The early afternoon sunlight streams in through the windows, providing a somewhat tranquil atmosphere. In fact, it feels like the world isn’t ending. Akaashi’s never seen so many people in one place, not since he filed into the auditorium after seeing a strange and ominous disk floating above downtown Tokyo, with his classmates who were just minutes from death. 

Akaashi blinks once, twice, taking it in and trying to shake the thoughts from his head.

“It’s a lot,” Sugawara says. “Is it too much?”

Curious now, Akaashi shakes his head. He wants to see more, more of this sense of normalcy that he finds himself craving.

They lead him around the open space, passing mostly barracks. There’s a cafeteria passing out rations with a whiteboard displaying the menu, and the type of personnel allowed to receive the food. But he can’t keep his gaze off of the drilling soldiers down below.

“The military is large,” says Sugawara. “The Resurgence Alliance of Kyoto is the only Resurgence Alliance in Japan. Any survivors, no matter where they’re found, are brought here. At least, I think. The soldier-to-doctor ratio is some fifty-to-one.”

Alisa points down to a group of people wearing pressed navy blue and white blazers, white pants, a white Sam Browne belt, and navy caps. “They’re foreign,” she explains. “Probably American. The largest portion of the higher ups are survivors from the Okinawa base, so it’s a mix of Japanese and Americans. They had the most warning. But there’s others too.”

“Like Russians,” Sugawara supplies, looking to Alisa.

Alisa purses her lips. “Yes, like Russians. But I don’t know why you’re looking at me, I’ve lived my whole life in Japan.”

Akaashi looks to her, a little curious. She looked somewhat foreign, with her stark white hair, but he’d figured it was dyed. 

“I’m Russian,” she says in an exasperated voice. “Half Russian, half Japanese. But I only really speak Japanese, so don’t think about it. And I lived in Japan way before I was born, before the beings even _existed_ in this galaxy, so I--”

“Okay, sorry,” Sugawara cuts in, voice light. “Moving on.” He pauses. Akaashi thinks he’s trying to dodge a subject, or go around it, or at least try to find the right way to phrase it. “Ah. . . when you heal up. . .” He points down to a sector on the first floor. “That’s where most of the barracks are, for lower-ranking soldiers.”

Oh. _Oh._ So Akaashi was joining the military, effective when he was healed. He felt suddenly stupid, what did he think was going to happen? Would they ask him if he wanted to, and if he said no, just let him be to live out a strange but calming life within the Resurgence Alliance?

“There isn’t any way to get around it,” says Alisa, sensing Akaashi’s uncertainty. “Everyone here joins the military. The exceptions are college students and established doctors.” She motions to the place Sugawara had pointed to on the lower floor, a small area that Akaashi can only guess leads out to another training facility. “The under-eighteen unit.”

And it feels very dark. There is an under-eighteen unit, a space for the young, for _children_ to be trained in the arts of guns, survival, and preparation to watch your loved ones die. 

Akaashi realizes he’s probably not much different from the others in the children’s unit. He saw death, he caused it when he pulled the trigger as the muzzle was pressed to the hijacked soldier’s head. He shudders, imagining if instead of a seventeen-year-old, it was an eleven, ten, or nine-year-old. 

“It is not ideal,” says Alisa. “But unless one of them proves themselves to be extremely smart or tactical, that they can help the doctors or resurrectionists, there is no way to get out of it.”

 _Resurrectionists?_ That’s a new word. Akaashi looks at her with confusion, trying to understand what a resurrectionist is, what they might do. He only remembers the old definition for _resurrectionist_ , body-stealers in cemeteries, but he figures that it must mean something different now, he hopes it means something different now. He mouths the word, trying to accentuate each syllable.

Sugawara understands before Alisa. “It’s not what you think, it’s a new branch of the military. They’re small groups of highly-trained soldiers who go out of missions to survey the damage. Then, they decide what to do.”

“It’s a few days old,” says Alisa. “Not many of them yet, and the first group of them were sent out just yesterday.”

“It’s hard to get communication with other countries, and almost harder to get communication with our own. Whatever pockets of survivors are out in Japan have not come into contact with anyone from the Resurgence Alliance,” Sugawara says.

“But!” Alisa interrupts hopefully, “that is the point of the resurrectionists. It’s new and there’s still hope.”

Akaashi only looks dully at the darkened barracks. They’re below him, but they seem to loom over him, a threatening reminder of his future, sealed, all within a few days. 

Sugawara’s pager beeps, and it’s time for Akaashi’s edema scan.

“You’re clear,” says Daichi, helping Akaashi out of the bed. “I’ll escort you back to your old room.”

The scan was quick and painless, and Akaashi is glad for that at least. He finds that as Daichi is walking him back down the desolate underground hall, his neck hurts a little less, and he can balance better. Perhaps it was getting out that helped him or maybe it was Sugawara’s words, telling him it was almost certain he’d be a soldier looming over him, taking the place of what should be a painful throat or pounding head.

“Bokuto is okay,” Daichi says after a little. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”

It wasn’t, but now that Daichi mentions the other boy, he is suddenly curious.

“He woke up just a few minutes after you left with Haiba and Sugawara. He was a little confused but he’s fine now.” Daichi ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s. . . crazy.” He laughs to himself. “Sorry. It’s too early to have hope.”

Daichi opens the door by flashing his ID near the scanner and allows Akaashi in. Sugawara standing next to Bokuto, whose bed is still situated right next to Akaashi’s, his hands in his pockets, listening to Bokuto speak.

His eyes catch Daichi, and then Akaashi. He dips his head. “How was the scan?”

“Negative,” says Daichi. He looks at Akaashi. “Another good thing happened to him, huh?”

Akaashi ignores him, rolling his IV stand over to his bed and sitting on the sheets so his legs hang over. 

“Hi, Keiji!”

Akaashi turns, a little surprised by Bokuto’s use of his given name. Then he realizes, he owes it to Bokuto that he knows it now, so he figures he’ll just let it slide. He gives Bokuto a small smile. Bokuto returns it without hesitation.

“Suga said you had an edema,” he says with a frown. “Are you okay now?”

Akaashi looks at Sugawara, who shakes his head. “No, Bokuto. I said he’s being screened for a pulmonary edema but he doesn’t have it, thank the gods.”

“Oh!” Bokuto says. “Oh. That’s good. Keiji, look what Suga brought you!” He turns to his bedside and holds up a styrofoam cup with a straw.

Akaashi visibly cringes and looks to Sugawara with a disgusted expression. The protein shake is back and he’s not excited to drink it. It wasn’t unbearable the last time, but he’s perfectly content receiving his nutrients from the IV.

“Sorry Akaashi,” Sugawara says with a shrug. “You’re gonna try again. Gradual reintroduction. Bokuto already drank his and if you don’t drink yours, he will, I’m sure.”

At this, Bokuto nods earnestly. Akaashi realizes he’s got no IV and that protein shake was probably all he consumed in the past couple hours. Akaashi points to the black window, asking Sugawara if he was being watched.

Sugawara’s eyes flicker to Bokuto and back to Akaashi, and he gives a quick nod, almost intangible. Akaashi accepts the protein shake from Bokuto and takes a drink without further question. 

To his surprise, it doesn’t sting as much going down as it did earlier this morning. He takes another drink. Sugawara and Daichi exchange a glance but Bokuto simply stares at him, a stupid smile on his face. He keeps going.

Sugawara gives a small sigh of relief and turns to Daichi. “Has Tsukishima asked you to move him aboveground?”

“Yeah,” Daichi says. “He’s not to move aboveground until he can speak properly.”

There’s a pause, a blanket of disbelief settling over the room. Akaashi stops drinking.

“What?” Sugawara asks. “This is bullshit. How do they. . . how do they expect him to jump right back into the world if he can’t even see the sun?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?” Sugawara demands. “The fucking. . . the fucking commanders did this, didn’t they?”

“They had nothing to do with it,” Daichi responds, almost venomously. “I don’t understand why you’re so mad about this. He’ll speak eventually, and Tsukishima--”

“The chief’s just some pawn,” spats Sugawara. “You can’t just force Akaashi to be a resurrectionist when he hasn’t seen the light of day and. . .” His voice falters. 

Akaashi doesn’t feel hungry anymore. _Resurrectionist._ Why had Sugawara told him earlier he would just be a soldier? Why had they kept that from him? His hands feel numb and his grip on the styrofoam protein shake is jelly. He can do nothing but look helplessly at Sugawara, whose apologetic eyes reflect back onto his. 

_You weren’t supposed to find out like this,_ they say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things will pick up soon, I promise ;)


	6. Chapter 6

Daichi takes Sugawara out of the room without saying another word and Akaashi is alone with Bokuto. He doesn’t think about what is happening in the hall, he knew they were being watched and the doctors are likely unhappy with Sugawara. He doesn’t want to think about it.

Bokuto is quiet but Akaashi can practically feel his anxious energy. He wants to say something, desperately. Bokuto stands up and walks around the bed, grabbing the whiteboard and marker and shoving it into Akaashi’s lap. Then, he takes a seat on the bed next to him.

“What’s a resurrectionist, Keiji?” he asks.

Akaashi’s not so sure himself. From his conversation with Alisa and Sugawara earlier, he can gather they try to communicate with the outside world, but even that seems like a vague and unspecified coverup for their real job. Akaashi simply writes, _They talk to people outside._

Bokuto reads over it and then groans. “Have you tried to talk? It’s hard having a conversation with you. It feels like I’m talking to myself.” He pauses for a minute, as if giving Akaashi time to think. “You’ll be able to get aboveground faster.”

 _And join the resurrectionists faster_ , Akaashi thinks to himself bitterly. He writes, _it hurts_ on the board.

“But you had a drink,” Bokuto protests. “Is it different somehow?”

Akaashi draws in a breath and tries to hum. It still feels like hands around his neck and his voice box is numb and heavy in his throat. 

Bokuto perks up. “There! I heard it! You sound just like you did in your mind.”

Akaashi looks at him, exasperated. He points to the words on the board, written, _it hurts_ , trying to drive the point home.

Bokuto frowns and crosses his arms. “Like I said, wouldn’t you wanna talk so you can get above ground faster?”

Now, Akaashi does want to talk just so he can tell Bokuto he’ll be forced to join the resurrectionists if he talks too. Angrily, he erases the board and writes, _I’ll be a resurrectionist_.

Bokuto reads it. “Oh. Well, don’t you wanna be one? I heard it’s super hard to join. And they get to leave the facility!”

Akaashi sighs. He truly doesn’t know if he wants to go outside the compound, if he even trusts himself. He looks away.

“You don’t wanna leave, do you?” asks Bokuto gently. 

In truth, Akaashi is deathly afraid of the outside world, of watching more people die while he sits idly by, unable to do anything. There has to be better people than him for the job, and clearly there are, if Alisa mentioned they just sent out a group of resurrectionists. Akaashi writes another sentence on the board, asking Bokuto about the outside world.

“It’s. . .” Bokuto’s voice trails off. “A lot. There’s a lot of people but they’re all. . . what’s the word the Alliance uses, hijacked? They don’t really have much impulse control, but they’re not like zombies. They can process information and they can shoot a gun pretty damn well. The biggest thing I noticed was that they can’t really communicate with one another. They speak broken Japanese, like the beings are trying to get them to speak their language but it doesn’t work with human minds. It’s kinda insane.”

Akaashi wonders briefly how Bokuto survived for that long, surrounded by so many hijacked. He was obviously incapacitated after infiltrating Akaashi’s mind, so could he really have bounced between people’s minds for days on end? 

Akaashi wouldn’t have asked the question had he been able to speak, but it doesn’t matter anyway. Daichi returns, alone.

He clears his throat, drawing Bokuto and Akaashi’s attention. “Both of you will be resurrectionists per Chief Tsukishima and General Miya’s orders. I’m sorry Sugawara told you like that.”

Akaashi releases a slow breath. It sounds different now, more official, since Daichi is telling him outright instead of Sugawara repeating it during an outburst.

“Where is Suga?” Bokuto asks, unfazed.

Daichi purses his lips and looks to the ground. “He needs to cool down.”

Another blanket of silence covers the room. Daichi plays with the pen in his hand. “Uhm, food will be brought in shortly for Bokuto, and Akaashi, you’ll get another protein shake.”

Akaashi’s not really hungry anymore, but he doesn’t object. Daichi hurries out of the room but the tension is still as thick as mud.

Bokuto eats his food in uncomfortable silence and Akaashi doesn’t touch his protein shake, he’s still full from the last one anyway. The girl Michimiya comes by to remove Akaashi’s IV since he can sustain himself now, and Bokuto chats amiably with her. Akaashi forgot that while Alisa and Sugawara took him aboveground, Bokuto was still kept in the room with Daichi and Michimiya.

“They said we’ll be resurrectionists,” Bokuto mentions to her as she takes out his IV as well. “At least, Keiji is.”

“Oh,” she says and it feels like the mood has been killed.

“What?” asks Bokuto, taking a bite of his bread ration.

She shakes her head. “Nothing. Just the first group of resurrectionists sent out earlier today got in touch with someone but apparently it wasn’t good. Around half of them were killed.”

Bokuto stops eating. “No way.”

Michimiya nods grimly. “There were twelve sent out. They didn’t wanna send a large number ‘cause of safety. I guess they encountered some group of hijacked or a hostile survivor faction. The leader called back here and said they were leaving, they lost five people.”

“Oh wow,” Bokuto murmurs, glancing at Akaashi. Akaashi does not look back at him, only keeps his gaze firmly on Michimiya. “I guess this is why you have me now huh?” He gives a small smile.

Michimiya’s gaze flickers to Akaashi. “I guess.” She moves, closer to him so she’s standing just over his bed. “What happened to you?” It’s almost like she’s speaking to a dead body, marveling at it.

Akaashi makes brief eye contact with her and points to his throat, glad he has an excuse to dodge the question.

“Where were you when it was happening?” Bokuto asks. Perhaps he sensed Akaashi’s uneasiness.

Michimiya looks to Bokuto, taking both IV stands in to push them away. “I was going to cram school in Miyagi. We got this emergency notification to stay away from people and hunker down. It wasn’t from the Japanese government though.” She pauses as if choosing her words carefully. “That was the most panic I’ve ever felt. I was in the middle of town and everyone was looking at each other, we weren't sure where to go. But the Resurgence Alliance loaded as many of us into their helicopters as they could.”

“As many?” Bokuto asks. “Why not all?”

“Because. The choppers could only hold so many. They took anyone with any sort of combat experience first, then anyone in the medical field. Then they took students like me and Daichi. We were lucky. They took us together.”

“Oh,” Bokuto says. Akaashi watches his face contort and he realizes Bokuto did not have such an experience. He wants to ask what Bokuto had to go through--he was likely the only one who had his wits about him, filled with confusion, leaping from mind to mind trying to salvage just one person. . .

Akaashi takes the protein shake, occupying himself with that instead of his ponderings on Bokuto’s past. It doesn’t matter how he got here, only that he got here. And he did.

“I’ll leave you then,” Michimiya says suddenly. She dips her head, pushing both of the IV stands out of the room.

As Akaashi’s fingers brush over the bandage where his port was, Bokuto looks at him. 

“Daichi and Michi were dating, didja know?” Bokuto takes another bite of his bread, effectively finishing it. “That’s probably why they were lucky. I guess a lotta people got separated from their boyfriends. But not Michi.” Bokuto pauses, swallowing his food. “They’re still dating now. Good for them.” 

Akaashi ignores him. All he thinks about is Michimiya’s story, her survival. She thought she was lucky to board the helicopter with Daichi, Akaashi thought she was lucky to get the warning in the first place. Memories of him sitting with Sarukui and Komi hearing a sudden scream, gathering in the class across from them, a black disk hovering over them. Akaashi shuts his eyes and grips the sheets, telling himself he is with the Alliance, he is safe.

“You’re here.” Komi’s voice.

“He’s always a little late, right Akaashi?” Sarukui, voice light and playful, teasing.

Akaashi opens his eyes. He’s lying in a bed, Sarukui and Komi leaned over him as if monitoring him. It’s still dark, but he can make out the faint glow of light illuminating their faces. He tries to open his mouth but every time he does, his throat burns and aches. 

“Ah, don’t worry about that right now,” Sarukui says sweetly. “We’ve got other things.” He points a finger to the ceiling, drawing Akaashi’s gaze upward. Then, he catches sight of them.

Two men wearing military uniforms, guns pointing at Sarukui and Komi’s heads, muzzles dug far into their hair. Black eyes.

His heart stops and his mouth runs dry.

Komi leans in closer to him and the gun follows him. “Watch out. It’s gonna be loud.” 

A single gunshot and Komi is slumped against him, warm, thick brains decorating Akaashi’s hands, blood caked over the left side of his body in his eyes, his mouth.

Tears brim in Akaashi’s eyes, blurring his vision, and he screams.

Akaashi is sitting upright in his bed, throat burning and heart racing. He can still hear the gunshot, feel the warm blood on his body. He shudders and wipes furiously at the left side of him, but there’s no blood, only sweat. It clings his hospital gown to his body. 

Akaashi draws in a steady breath, pushing the sheets off of his trembling legs. It’s dark in the room, just like in the dream, and he can only hear the constant ticking of the clock on the wall.

“Keiji.”

Akaashi turns his head slightly, sees Bokuto lying next to him, amber eyes open wide. “Hm?”

“You talked,” he says matter-of-factly. “In your nightmare and just now.”

Akaashi brings his hands to his throat. It doesn’t burn as much any more, only feels like he’s got strep throat. His mother would give him tea and tell him to get lots of rest. “Oh,” he says slowly, sounding it out. “I did.” His voice is scratchy from disuse but it feels good to speak again, to be able to communicate without writing every little character down on a cheap whiteboard with a dying Expo marker.

“Wow!” Bokuto exclaims. He sits up in his bed. “Keiji that’s cool! We can go above ground! I heard it’s really nice up there, they got a lotta gyms and people, and--”

“The resurrectionists,” Akaashi says, taking the large word one syllable at a time. “The resurrectionists. They all died.”

“Um,” Bokuto begins, “I guess so. But not all, only half. But that’s no big deal, they didn’t have me! If I was there, I would’ve revived them.”

Akaashi frowns but he’s not sure Bokuto can see it in the darkness. “You were incapacitated after going into my head.”

“Yeah, but it’s not usually like that,” Bokuto explains. “It’s usually like, I pass out while I’m in their head and then I can go right back in my body when I’m done. I don’t know why your body did that. Like I said, I didn’t know that and--”

“Bokuto,” Akaashi interrupts. “What time is it?” He’ll make full use of his voice now--normally he would’ve been forced to listen to Bokuto talk. Now he has his own way to make him shut up.

“Oh, um. . . one in the morning? Maybe two? You slept for a long time. Dr. Haiba came back in and she said it was better not to wake you. Do you know how hard it was for me to be quiet? There was nothing to do! I had to resort to telling myself stories. I’m glad you can talk now, ‘cause maybe we can go outside. It’s been a while since I’ve been outside.”

Akaashi lays back on his bed. Bokuto’s still rambling but he’s not listening. There’s a fear that comes with his ability to speak again, the knowledge that now people will want to know about him, who he was, how he got like this, and most frighteningly, they’ll send him back into the world. It occurs to Akaashi that maybe there are people on the other side monitoring him into the night. But then again, if there were, they’d have come in when Akaashi started speaking in his dream.

His dream. It’s the first time he’s dreamt since the arrival of the beings and he never wants to do it again. He misses the dreamless, black sleeps he had when he first arrived, when he couldn’t speak nor walk and was useless to the Resurgence Alliance.

Bokuto quiets down and Akaashi can only hear his heartbeat. He’s not going to get back to sleep, he knows this much. He’ll just feel Komi’s blood drenching his body again, the sound of gunshots.

“Bokuto,” he says.

“Yeah?”

Akaashi hesitates, wondering if the question is stupid. “Do you. . . have one of those ID scanners?”

“What for?”

“I’m just wondering.”

Bokuto shifts in the bed and Akaashi uncomfortably realizes he’s staring right at him. “Are you trying to leave or something?”

Akaashi doesn’t respond, figuring that should be answer enough. 

“I don't,” Bokuto says. “Michi gave me one but Daichi took it off me when he left. Why d’ya wanna leave?”

“Just a walk,” Akaashi says. “It’s stuffy in here.”

Bokuto turns onto his back again and stares up at the ceiling. “Yeah. A little.”

“Bokuto.”

“Huh?” Bokuto turns his head and Akaashi feels that same intimidation he felt when he first saw him.

“How did you get here?” The words are faint on Akaashi’s lips.

A look of surprise crosses his face and he resumes his gaze at the ceiling. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” Akaashi says without missing a beat.

“Really? The apocalypse happens ‘n you’ve got time?” Bokuto laughs at his little joke but Akaashi doesn’t find it funny. He clears his throat after seeing Akaashi’s blank face. “Okay, sorry. Um… I wasn’t very interesting before the beings came. When they first came down, they rounded up all of the kids for. . . uhm, human experimentation.”

Akaashi suddenly feels a wave of guilt for asking. Does Bokuto dislike talking about his past as much as Akaashi? Does the thought of it bring up sounds and images he wishes to keep down, hidden away in the deepest depths of his brain?

Bokuto must’ve seen Akaashi’s displeased face, because he speaks up immediately. “It’s not. . . not that bad, really. I mean. . . I don’t know. They took what was going to be Japanese military weapons and changed them a bit for us.”

Curious now, Akaashi wants to know more. But he’s not sure that Bokuto wants to say anything else, and Akaashi is the last person who wants to cause him any more trouble. 

“There were a few more but. . . I don’t think they made it out of the base. I didn’t see them when I woke up, so I assumed they were taken by the military or something.”

“You don’t have to say more,” Akaashi says quietly. “I’m sorry if you can’t talk about it.”

“No,” Bokuto says kindly. “It’s. . . kinda nice. I only had to talk to Chief Akiteru about it and that old guy. . . General Miya. They were scary, but you’re nice.” He sits up and reaches into the breast pocket of his hospital gown, producing a small, rectangular card. A catlike smile crosses his face. "I stole it back from him."

Akaashi's eyes widen, gazing on the ID card reading _Sawamura Daichi_ and a little black-and-white barcode. "Oh wow. . . why did you hold out on me?"

"I just. . ." Bokuto looks away and his cheeks tint red. "I wanted to make conversation with you. I'm sorry if I disappointed you, I didn't mean to--"

"No, I don't care," Akaashi says, taking the ID in his hands. "Wanna come with me?"

The anxiety disappears off of Bokuto's face and he beams. "Sure."

"It was this way," Akaashi whispers. The lights in the hallway are all off, save for a few small ones, casting a thin beam of light in certain areas of the hall. The lack of windows makes it almost pitch-black, like the interior of a prison. "The elevator." There weren't many turns Akaashi, Sugawara, and Alisa took before reaching the elevator, so it's not hard for Akaashi to stay on course.

Bokuto, on the other hand, has yet to be in the hallway conscious. He's walking at a slower pace, despite Akaashi's best efforts to get him to move quickly. He stops at every doctor's door, examines the plate outside it, inquires to Akaashi about what the words mean, and then keeps moving. 

"Keiji? I found Chief Akiteru's," Bokuto says. Akaashi stops next to him to read it again. 

"He's from Miyagi," Akaashi explains as Bokuto runs his finger over the bolded letters. "Should we keep going Bokuto?"

"Yeah. Yeah sure. Sorry."

They turn the corner, and Akaashi sees the elevator up ahead, emergency lights around its border, making it impossible to miss. "It's just up there," Akaashi says. Bokuto follows him as they reach it, and Akaashi holds Daichi's ID under the scanner. There's a beep, the scanner lights up green, and the doors open. Akaashi steps in, turns, and realizes Bokuto's not behind him.

"Bokuto?" Akaashi asks in a whisper, holding his hand out so the doors don't close. "Where are you?" He looks to his left from where they had just came, but the hall is dark and empty. Then to his right. He sees Bokuto's figure outlined in thin emergency lighting, staring blankly at another doctor's office. "Bokuto," Akaashi says with an exasperated sigh. He steps out of the elevator and the doors close, but he's not upset--he can open them again anyway. He walks over to where Bokuto is standing, so hung-up over the nameplate outside someone's door that he can't even respond. "What're you. . ." 

His heart stops when he reads the words.

_Patient 37  
Sugawara Koushi (20)  
MYG COMPRO_  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ++sorry this took so long to get out, I've been very busy lately!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added /20 because this should be around 20 chapters, give or take! I still might need to adjust it a lil lol
> 
> Thank you for reading, much love! <3

“Please step away from that door.”

Akaashi’s breath hitches in his throat. He turns and sees two young men, perhaps Sugawara’s age, standing just a few meters away. He doesn’t see much of their faces, because he’s focused on the silver gun that one of the men is pointing at them.

“Hands up,” the man without the gun says, with an accent. He’s got dyed blonde hair and dark eyes, while the other has messy black hair and a narrow gaze. They’re both dressed in the same military uniform--the one worn by high-ranking officers. On their necks are two large golden medallions, hanging in stark contrast from the navy of their uniform.

Akaashi puts his hands next to his head and nudges Bokuto gently to get him to do the same but Bokuto doesn’t. He looks to the man with the gun, a desperate expression in his eyes.

“If. . . if you let me in, I promise I can help him,” says Bokuto. His voice is as calm as it could be, but it wavers and cracks.

The man with the gun shakes his head. “You’re too late. He was shot earlier today.” He looks to his comrade. “We were sent to remove the plaque.”

Akaashi’s knees feel like jelly, but he won’t let himself fall, not in front of them.

“Why?” Bokuto asks shakily. “What--why didn’t anyone ask me? Do you guys not trust me? I can do this, how do you think I survived in the compound that long, I--”

“You think this was up to us?” the black-haired man asks. “We were Suga’s friends. We didn’t. . .” his grip tightens on the gun aimed right at Bokuto’s chest, “. . .shoot him.”

“But why--”

“It was an executive decision, kid,” the blonde-haired man says nonchalantly. “Shootin's ain’t uncommon here. People get hijacked. We can’t let them infiltrate the Alliance. It sucks. But it is what it is.”

“I could’ve helped--”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” the blonde-haired man says, suddenly cold. “We all think we could’a saved them.”

But in truth, they could’ve. Sugawara is dead. But he didn’t have to be, he didn’t have to be, and that is what Akaashi finds so revolting is that they could have readily used Bokuto’s abilities to bring him back, to restore him to the sweet assistant he was but they chose not to. And the willful ignorance of the men in front of him, choosing not to acknowledge the fact that Sugawara died alone and helpless compels him to open his mouth.

“It’s different with him,” Akaashi says before he can think. He’s not sure why he spoke, not even sure if the blonde man heard him at first. But he did, and his dark gaze turns to Akaashi. Akaashi feels intimidated, feeling like this man he doesn’t know told him something dangerously intimate. “He. . . he’s not from here. He’s from the military. He can go. . . go into people’s minds and, uhm. . . revive them.” It feels so juvenile saying those words out loud, like it’s some little kid’s fantasy.

“Sounds like BS,” says the blonde-haired man, but the black-haired man relaxes the hand holding the gun.

Akaashi exchanges a glance with Bokuto. It’s in this moment that they realize these two men haven’t been informed about Bokuto’s arrival to the Alliance, did not even know someone like him could exist.

It didn’t matter, though, right? The Alliance still had Bokuto at their disposal, he had been conscious at the time Sugawara had been taken away and could have very easily revived him.

“Why didn’t they. . .” Bokuto begins, but he’s cut off by the black-haired man.

“You two are patients,” he says pointedly. “Why are you out?”

“A walk,” Akaashi responds.

“A walk,” the black-haired man repeats.

“It was my idea,” Bokuto adds. “So if you blame anyone, it was me. Kei--Akaashi has been through enough today.”

There’s a beat of silence and Akaashi sees the two men look each other in the eye. The black-haired man slides the gun back in his holster and they both take a step forward.

“Akaashi,” the blonde-haired man says, giving Akaashi the once-over. “That’s yer name. And you can speak? I thought yer larynx was fractured.”

Akaashi’s stomach is heavy as a rock. How could they know him, but not Bokuto? Why was he so important? 

Under any other circumstance, he would’ve stayed quiet. But the thought of Sugawara with deep, unforgiving black eyes is stained in his mind. “I. . . I can speak a little now,” Akaashi says slowly. If he is important, he will utilize this newfound power to make everyone who made that “executive decision” regret it.

“Then you’ll come with me,” says the blonde-haired man, grabbing hold of Akaashi’s wrist. When Bokuto almost jumps forward, Akaashi shakes his head just a little and he backs off. 

The blonde-haired man either does not notice this or chooses not to acknowledge it. “Kuroo, you can take Military Kid back to his room. Meet us in my father’s office when yer done.” He waits before adding, “make sure the door is locked.”

“Alright,” the black-haired man, Kuroo, says.

Akaashi doesn’t turn to look at Bokuto as he lets the blonde-haired man manhandle him into the elevator.

“Yer very important to my father,” the man says as the elevator is riding up. “How long have you been able to speak?”

Akaashi meets his eyes unflinchingly. “Couple hours.”

The doors open and the man holds Akaashi’s gaze for another second before walking out and trusting Akaashi will follow him.

Akaashi does, he’s got no reason not to. 

The aboveground facility is different at night, the moonlight shining through the windows, painting the lifeless interior with a pale glow. He’s taken farther than he was earlier with Alisa and Sugawara, past the cafeteria and dining hall, past the gymnasium and various barracks, to the very edge of the whole complex.

The plaque outside of the metal door reads, 

_General Miya Kuniko  
OKNW CLEAR_

“Why is he awake?” Akaashi asks the blonde-haired man as he places his ID card under the scanner. 

“He never sleeps,” says the man simply. As the scanner flashes green, he turns to a small, camera-like device placed just above the door handle. He displays the medallion around his neck, and the door unlocks with a click.

Inside is a conference room, with a large ovular table and a whiteboard just next to it. There’s a few people sitting around it, mostly old men whom Akaashi doesn’t look too long at. Sitting the head, furthest from the door, is a large man, maybe in his late forties, and standing next to him is a younger man with dyed gray hair and the exact same face as the blonde-haired man. Akaashi notices there is no medallion around his neck.

The man at the head looks up, eyes narrow and unimpressed. “When did you get permission to enter, Atsumu?”

“I didn’t,” Atsumu, the blonde-haired man, says. “But I have good reason.”

“You’ve interrupted a generals’ meeting.”

“Akaashi Keiji can speak.”

The man goes quiet, and a few of the other men turn to each other, speaking in whispers that Akaashi can’t make out. He feels the attention of the room all center on him. The older man turns to the gray-haired man and says something. 

“I suppose now is as good a time as any,” says the man decidedly. “Pull up a chair for him, Osamu.” 

The gray-haired man strolls over to where Akaashi and Atsumu are standing, grabs a wooden chair, places it opposite the old man, and makes a point of bumping Atsumu’s shoulder as he returns back.

Akaashi takes this as his cue to sit down and he does so. Atsumu does not, only stands next to him.

“I found him outside his room with another patient.”

“Ah,” says the old man. He turns his gaze to Akaashi. “I see you have met one of my sons. Atsumu--” he points at Atsumu, “and Osamu, his twin brother.” He points behind him to Osamu, looking identical to Atsumu only with different hair.

Akaashi nods slightly.

“And what were you doing up so late at night?”

Akaashi hesitates. “Sometimes it’s hard to sleep.”

The man looks at a pile of papers sitting in front of him. “I would say you are not the only one nowadays.” He writes something down on one of them. “My name is General Miya. I’m from the Okinawa base and I’m the leader of military affairs at the Resurgence Alliance of Kyoto. My sons are from Hyogo.” There’s a pause and he looks to Atsumu. “Just to clear up any future misunderstandings. So, I’m sure you’re aware we have some questions for you.”

Akaashi nods, staring at the wooden table. So that is why Atsumu speaks with the unfamiliar drawl his father lacks.

“Osamu,” Miya says, “please brief Akaashi on the most recent events of the world invaded.”

Osamu clears his throat. “Currently, an estimated thirty percent of survivors in Japan reside at the Resurgence Alliance of Kyoto. The statuses of the nearly seventy percent of non-hijacked people is unknown, although based on resurrectionist efforts, several survivor factions have been set up. Any attempts of communication with the factions have been unsuccessful, and some have even proven to be hostile. The state of the rest of the world is unclear. Intel suggests the arrival of two more disks in Quezon City, Philippines, and Plovdiv, Bulgaria but that is all unsure.”

“So you can see,” General Miya began, “that the beings are descending more rapidly into our world. We have no idea how many there are, how many disks we have yet to see, or how to fight back against the beings. At least, we didn’t until the arrival of Bokuto Koutarou.”

Akaashi looks up, his focus broken. Had Miya decided not to tell his own son about Bokuto Koutarou’s existence? Or had Atsumu simply not known what Bokuto looked like?

“I presume that was who was with you, when Atsumu found you. Am I wrong?”

Akaashi bites his lip. “No, sir.”

Miya looks at his notes. “And he is back in his room, I hope?”

“Yes, sir.”

Atsumu speaks up. “Kuroo took him back.”

“Good,” says Miya. His eyes flicker around the dimly-lit room, looking at the rest of the men, all dressed in the same officer’s uniform as Atsumu. Save for Osamu and the general, Akaashi notices, they all have gold medallions. “Let’s get on with the questions, if I should?”

The men around the table all nod, and Miya begins. “You were found by majors Ukai Keishin and Tanaka Saeko, who coincidentally also picked up Bokuto in Yokota. You had a vestibular concussion and fractured larynx. You were armed. You were in your school uniform. You. . .”

Akaashi stops listening as the general speaks, reading off of his notes. He doesn’t need the entire event recited to him, he sees it in his nightmares more than enough. Instead, he focuses his gaze on the table and lets Miya recount the events that led him here.

“. . .and you were the only survivor within an almost ten-thousand kilometer radius. Would you tell us your day, from the beginning? Naturally skip the boring parts.”

Akaashi’s throat suddenly goes dry, and it feels like his larynx is fractured all over again. Next to him, Atsumu clears his own, very healthy, throat, as if reminding Akaashi not to take that long.

Akaashi begins from his last memory of normality. “I was eating lunch with two of my friends at school.” He pauses. What were they talking about? Something stupid, trivial, something that holds no meaning in his current state. Ah yes--his calculus test. “I had a calculus test in the next class," he adds for no reason in particular, "and then we. . . heard a scream. It was a girl from the class across from us.”

“And you attended Fukurodani Academy, correct?” asks another man, seated next to Miya. “You’re listed as a second-year, seventeen years old.”

“Yes,” Akaashi says, wishing he was back at Fukurodani, taking that stupid calculus test and failing it like he was supposed to. “We thought it was a bug or something at first so we ignored it. But there were more, and then we saw the disk.”

“And did you notice anything about the disk?” the same man asks. “Describe it in as much detail as possible.”

“I don’t. . .” Akaashi feels the memories as biting as a freezing water, washing over him. He can see it again, the massive black disk outside the window--black, black, that’s all it is, black. There’s no lights, no windows, no nothing. There’s nothing other than the assurance of their inevitable death.

He only realizes he’s stopped talking when Atsumu nudges him. He looks up, face warm, to see all the men around the table staring at him.

“Suh. . . sorry,” mumbles Akaashi. “I couldn’t see anything. It was just black. Maybe it was too far away to see. But we were sent back to our classes and then they told us to gather in the auditorium so we could be picked up by our parents. But the military. . . they’d already gotten to my mother. I don’t know what happened to my father. I guess he’s dead too.”

“And do you have a guess at the time of day this happened?” Miya asks.

Akaashi hardly sees how that’s important. “I don’t know. Maybe around noon.” He pauses. And then, a little quieter, “I don’t know.”

“And how did you survive? I mean, out of everyone in your class, why you?”

 _Why you?_ Akaashi’s fingernails dig into his palms, that familiar feeling of guilt settling in his stomach. “I left. I lied about my mom being there to pick me up and left. Everyone else’s parents were picked up by the military so they couldn’t leave. I went. . . outside and hid behind the gym. I was waiting for my friends but I heard the gunshots first.” He doesn’t want to talk about the messages telling him to run, saying something wasn’t right, especially not the phone call from Sarukui, screaming at him to get as far away as possible.

The gunshots, the screams, the pounding on the door echoes through his brain and he feels Atsumu nudge him again. 

Akaashi keeps his gaze focused level on the smooth table rather than Miya’s cold stare. All he wants is to be done with this, to ask his own questions. “I went back in to see if there were any survivors but there weren’t. I was trying to get a weapon when I was attacked by a hijacked soldier who was. . . still there, I guess. He. . . he. . .” Akaashi feels the hands close around his neck, the burn of his lungs starved for oxygen, the wetness of the soldier’s blood caking his body. . .

He starts talking before he can drown in his regrets, before Atsumu has the chance to nudge him again. “I killed him and took his gun,” he says simply, letting the meeting decide for themselves how his larynx and brain came to be bruised. “I was really. . . disoriented but I was trying to walk out of Tokyo. That’s when they found me.” Akaashi folds his hands in front of his chest as if to say, _is that enough?_

Miya jots something down on his notes. “Akaashi, how long had you lived in Tokyo before the incident?”

“My whole life.” Akaashi’s not sure what this has to do with anything but he answers anyway.

“And you’d say you know the layout well?” 

_You just can’t force Akaashi to be a resurrectionist when he hasn’t seen the light of day_ , Sugawara’s words ring clear in his head. Oh. _Oh._ Akaashi understands why the general is asking this.

Is he getting sent back to Tokyo?

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Miya says, writing something else down on his notes. He looks up and must have seen the fearful look on Akaashi’s face, because he talks again. “I understand Sugawara may have said some things while he was hijacked. But we’re not making you a resurrectionist, not now with the state you’re in.” He stands up. “However,” he says as he turns around to a drawer next to a bookshelf, reaches in, and grabs something inside, “you are the only one who has firsthand knowledge of the state of Tokyo. The military destroyed all the maps of it and they control the Internet, you see, so it’s very hard to find anyone who knows the layout of the city.”

But why? Why is Tokyo so important? It’s compromised already, Akaashi thinks.

“There are things we need in Tokyo,” Miya says, walking past the table to stand in front of Akaashi. He holds out the thing he grabbed in the drawer. It’s the same medallion that Atsumu and the other men around the table are wearing. 

Akaashi takes it hesitantly and turns it over in his hand. The symbol engraved on it is not something he recognizes. It’s an uppercase English letter _P_ with an _X_ running through its descender. On either side of the _X_ are the English letters _A_ and _W_. He can’t even begin to comprehend what it means.

“I had Sawamura talk to Bokuto. You know Sawamura, right?”

Akaashi’s heart skips a beat. Once again, he doesn’t respond. He knows this will be an adequate answer.

“From that conversation, we learned some things about Bokuto. Namely, that he isn’t “complete.” The military was hijacked before they could finish the experiments. However, he says the final piece of _him_ is in Tokyo.” Miya fishes through his pocket and produces a photograph of a tall office building near a harbor. “Do you know what this is?”

Akaashi’s mouth moves before he can stop it. “Dad’s work building.”

There’s an awkward pause, as if Miya hadn’t expected him to say this, but it’s true. Akaashi recognizes the impossibly large structure from the few times his dad had brought him to his work as a kid. Riding the elevator up twenty, thirty stories to get something his father had left during work hours. 

As Akaashi thinks about it, he doesn’t really have an idea of what his dad _did._

He knew he worked in business, that was all he knew. But business was never interesting to him, so he never bothered to look into it. 

“Well,” says Miya, glancing back at his commanders. “I would guess you know where it is.”

Akaashi clutches the medallion in his hand tighter. “Yes.”

The general begins to return to his seat. “I suppose we’ve found a bit more luck, haven’t we gentlemen?”

Murmurs of agreement, some bitter laughter.

“As I suppose the rest of you would, I would’ve liked to send you with a small group of resurrectionists to Tokyo to retrieve this piece, as it is vital to humanity as soon as possible. Unfortunately, anyone outside the complex is scared, and scared people are the most dangerous. To maximize our chances of success, Osamu and I have decided to wait for the survivors, both hijacked and not, to spread out a little.”

“What?” Atsumu asks next to Akaashi. “But wouldn’t the piece get stolen? What. . . what is it anyway?”

“From what Bokuto says, we believe it to be a syringe,” replies Miya calmly.

“A syringe?” Atsumu asks, disbelief and denial laced into his voice. “And you don’t think some hijacked is gonna get into it? The longer we wait, the more the bein's--”

“The beings won’t find it,” says Miya sharply. “We don’t know where it is in the building, but we’ve been assured it won’t be found.”

“By them?” Atsumu asks and his voice cracks. “Or by us?”

Silence fills the room and Akaashi realizes what he’s talking about. Something so impossible for the hijacked to find would also be impossible for humans to find, right? Phyically, the hijacked aren’t so different than humans. Like Bokuto said, the hijacked are not mindless zombies. They're capable of intelligent thought and movement. He remembers Bokuto saying something about how they could process information and fire a gun.

“That’s a ridiculous question,” Osamu says and Miya holds up his hand, forcing his son in to stop talking.

“It doesn’t matter what you think,” Miya says to both Atsumu and Osamu. “The syringe will be found when the city clears out and when it’s safe to fly a plane without being struck down. Akaashi will lead the team and Bokuto will be alongside him. There should be no questions. Atsumu, return him to his room.”

Atsumu gives his father an icy glare but takes Akaashi by his upper arm. Akaashi’s a little dazed after hearing all of this new information but as he’s yanked from his spot, he recalls his purpose for letting himself be dragged here in the first place.

“Wait,” he says and Atsumu stops, the door half-open.

Miya looks at him, eyebrows raised.

Akaashi gathers his breath. “If you knew about Bokuto. . . why did you shoot Sugawara?”

“I see you don’t know the full story,” says Miya. He looks at Osamu. “Well? You were his friend.”

Osamu bristles. “No I wasn’t.” But he looks to Akaashi nonetheless. “Sugawara did it to himself.”

Akaashi’s mouth runs dry. “Wuh. . . what?”

“Earlier this evenin', one of the fliers picked up a survivor just inside the city of Kyoto. She was hijacked but concealed it pretty well, 'n the fliers didn’t check. We told them to leave 'er, that nobody from a city was clean nowadays but they didn’t listen. Once she arrived, we told Sugawara not to interact with her, that she 'n the fliers that picked her up would be shot when they touched down. He didn’t listen. He smuggled her into the complex to help her, and got himself hijacked.”

“That room you found, with the plaque,” Atsumu says, “that was originally her room. It was changed to Sugawara’s when he was found to be hijacked. He wasn't shot because he was barricaded in it.”

“But. . . Bokuto was still. . .” Akaashi continues, unable to wrap his head around why they hadn’t just _woken_ him up. He can't comprehend how a complex _this_ size with _this_ much military might could lack the manpower to bring down one hospital door.

“It happened too fast,” Osamu says easily. “Resurrectionists are trained to act swiftly, not smartly.”

Akaashi scowls at him. “But he’s dead, and it could’ve been prevented.” His voice is rising now and he can’t control it.

“Akaashi,” Atsumu says. “Be quiet.”

“No, he could’ve been saved!” Akaashi fires back, looking him right in the eyes. 

“Come on, Akaashi,” says Atsumu lifelessly, pulling him out of the room.

“But they killed him!” Akaashi cries. His throat is burning again from all the speaking but he doesn’t care. As Atsumu pulls him out of the room, he struggles as much as he could. “You killed him! You let him die! You--”

He stops when he’s yanked completely from the room and Atsumu slams the door letting it lock. Just then, he grabs Akaashi by the hem of his gown and pushes him against the wall next to the door.

“Stop talkin',” Atsumu hisses. His dark eyes are so fiery, so irritated, looking right into Akaashi’s. Akaashi can feel his breath on him. “Sugawara couldn’t be saved. Leave it at that.” He looks Akaashi up and down and then continues. “I don’t wanna hear his name again.” With that, he gives Akaashi one final shove into the wall and lets him drop to his knees like a rag doll. He starts walking.

“Atsu--”

“No,” Atsumu says with finality, turning to him. “It’s not up to you who lives and who dies.” He holds up the medallion around his neck, pointing to it. “This is the symbol of the resurrectionists. Yer one of us now.” He kneels down to Akaashi. “Nobody cares that you didn’t ask for this. Nobody can ask for nothin' nowadays. You’ve seen shit, yer not special. Pick yerself up. Resurrectionists prioritize speed over smarts, Osamu said him-stupid-self. So people die.” His voice is a harsh whisper. “Get over it.”


	8. Chapter 8

_Four Years Later_

The complex is empty and dark, save for the thin stream of moonlight trickling in through the windows. Akaashi’s stomach lurches at the sound of his own footsteps, his and Bokuto’s, as they sneak past the gate into the mess hall.

“Are you sure you saw correctly?” Akaashi asks, turning behind him to see if they’ve been followed. With cameras lining every inch of the Alliance, they’ve surely been spotted. It’s a matter of if General Miya will do something about it. 

“Positive,” Bokuto says, holding out his ID to get into the kitchen. When it flashes green, Akaashi raises an eyebrow.

“How did you get clearance into the kitchen?” he asks. It’s not like the kitchen is anything secret, but rarely are soldiers allowed in--the rations are kept under strict security and it requires high-level clearance.

Bokuto shrugs mischievously. “I have my ways.”

Akaashi lets out an exasperated breath, knowing it’s probably better not to ask. Spending four years training with Bokuto, learning the ins and outs of his mind and his physicality--the way he was a good sniper but not as good at hand-to-hand despite the bulky makeup of his body. His way with words, instantly getting the other resurrectionists to like him and providing comic relief whenever the training missions got tough.

“Cover up your medallion,” Bokuto says as he opens the steel door. “They don’t let any resurrectionists in even if you’ve got clearance. The door won't unlock.”

Akaashi sighs and brings his hand up to the golden resurrectionist medallion. The steel door opens with a click and Bokuto gives a bow, motioning for Akaashi to go first. Akaashi walks through and flicks on the lights. 

It’s a small room, probably the size of an old classroom, filled to the brim with rations boxes. Their labels are written on them in messy Japanese; soups, chowders, anything nonperishable. 

“Come on, it’s in the back,” Bokuto says with a smile, leading Akaashi past the boxes. He stops at a very small, curiously plastic bin. It’s been colored over completely with marker, which Akaashi finds funny, as if the person who did so wanted to hide its contents. Bokuto opens the box and proudly shows Akaashi what lingers inside.

“Pudding!” he says happily.

“Oh. . . oh wow,” Akaashi breathes, looking over the little containers of chocolate and vanilla pudding. The last of the pudding rations had been eaten a month or two ago and it was hinted there was no more pudding left in Japan--at least, none the Resurgence Alliance could get their hands on. Akaashi and Bokuto had been hoping to get to eat one last container of pudding but they had been on a training mission, one that Atsumu would not let them miss, even for the last pudding in Japan. “Can I. . . take one?” Akaashi asks hesitantly.

Bokuto nods. “Yeah, I found them for us!” 

Akaashi selects a container of chocolate pudding. There’s no spoons, but they can make-do with the lids. “How did you find these?”

Bokuto’s already halfway done with his chocolate-and-vanilla swirl. “I saw ‘em carrying this box,” he says with a mouthful of pudding, “‘n I thought it was weird how it was colored in. And the old guy that works the rations loves me, so he let me have clearance in. And I figured I would share with you now because. . . because. . . you know.”

His voice trails off and Akaashi does know. Two weeks ago, one drone was sent to fly as northernmost as it could before getting shot down. It was unmanned, an automatic flier programmed to go continuously in one direction. It had been shot down by the beings in Niigata, a hundred or so miles northeast of Tokyo, making it farther than any other drone had, and closer too, since any past drones would be shot down nearly immediately after passing over Mt. Fuji. After, it was unanimously agreed that Tokyo was the safest it could be and the first mission to obtain Bokuto’s syringe was to be launched as soon as possible. In a few hours, Akaashi would be on a helicopter bound for Shibuya with Bokuto and the rest of his squad. He hadn’t slept soundly ever since the date for the mission was decided and he could see Bokuto was trying to comfort him with the pudding. They slept in the same barracks, and Bokuto surely heard Akaashi thrash and cry out in his sleep so it would’ve been impossible for him not to realize.

“Thank you, Bokuto,” Akaashi says with a small smile. The pudding does taste a little funny, Akaashi thinks, a little too room-temperature, but it’s been a while since he had pudding and he decides to just let himself enjoy something for a change.

They eat in silence until their cups are empty, to which Bokuto proposes to toss them and head back to the barracks. Akaashi agrees, not sure what else to do, and follows him down the hall.

“If you have any nightmares, you can crawl into my bed, okay?” Bokuto says. He’s said it before, multiple times, but Akaashi doesn’t want to be too much of a bother. Besides, he thinks, he’s not a child any more. He can handle his nightmares.

“I will,” says Akaashi, knowing full well it’s a lie. 

It’s ten thirty at night when they reach their barracks, nearly two hours past curfew and an hour past lights-out. Kuroo and Atsumu are sleeping soundly, while Iwaizumi is still up, a flashlight in hand, reading a book.

“What’s that?” Bokuto asks as they slip through the door.

Iwaizumi looks up. He’s the only one without a bunk bed, the luck of the draw. Kuroo and Bokuto have their respective top bunks, while Akaashi and Atsumu sleep on the bottom ones. 

“Old book,” Iwaizumi replies. 

Akaashi’s eyes scan over the title, just visible in the darkness. _Rashomon_ , a story he remembers reading in high school before the collapse. He also remembers seeing Iwaizumi read it years ago, when he had first met him after starting with the resurrectionists.

“Have you read that before?” Bokuto asks.

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi says, a little grimly. “But it’s not like they’ve got a library here.”

“Didn’t know you liked books,” responds Bokuto, removing his medallion and hanging it on the hook on the door. One for each of them with their names written under their hook with marker.

“Not really,” says Iwaizumi. “I used to read a lot before the collapse. Not enough books anymore.”

“Movies?” Bokuto asks. “They used to play that old movie _Rocky_ in between training sessions.” 

Akaashi remembers this as he places his medallion on the hook. He doesn’t remember paying much attention to the old American film about a boxer, but they eventually stopped--apparently it was the only DVD of a movie they had salvaged.

Iwaizumi shrugged. Then, he laughed a little. “It’s funny. My boyfriend liked to watch those old alien invasion movies.”

It is funny, and Akaashi smiles a little as he crawls into bed. Iwaizumi’s flashlight goes out and the room is dark, but he can hear Bokuto snickering a little.

“You had a boyfriend?” Bokuto asks when he’s done. “Did he spy for the beings before the collapse? Is that why he liked 'em so much?”

“I think he initiated the Munich disk,” Iwaizumi says pointedly, eliciting another bout of laughter from Bokuto. 

Akaashi suddenly wonders what happened to Iwaizumi’s boyfriend, but he knows better than to ask about people’s loved ones. He’s learned that if it hasn’t been previously stated, they’re probably hijacked or dead.

He knows his own are. It was figured out a few months into Akaashi’s life with the Alliance the exact reason so many children were killed by the hijacked--developing brains are unfit for hijacking. And with so many threats to the beings’ control being left untouched, there was no other choice than to waltz right into every elementary, middle, or high school and shoot every single person there. Akaashi’s not entirely sure of Iwaizumi’s age, but he’s pretty sure Iwaizumi was also in high school during the collapse, although he was from Miyagi. 

“Nobody cares about this,” mumbles Atsumu, voice heavy with lethargy. “It’s late ‘n yer all annoying.”

“He’s mad we aren’t talking to him,” says Bokuto and Atsumu huffs.

“I’m serious, we gotta wake up at six tomorrow.”

“Oh-six hundred hours,” Bokuto says, mimicking the sharp voice of General Miya.

Iwaizumi laughs and Atsumu threatens to have Bokuto reported.

They’re each given new clothing when they report to the helicopter pad at six the next morning. An old black windbreaker, a t-shirt the color of a muddy forest, khaki pants, a belt with a gun holster, and knee-high boots are in Akaashi’s hands, and the others in his squad have something similar. 

It’s been a while since he’s worn such common clothes, and as he disappears into the locker room with the other boys, he finds himself ready to get into such normal attire. His officer’s uniform is stiff and scratchy, overall inconvenient. They’ve been ordered to wear the clothing however comfortable, only that they should tuck their medallions under their shirts, so as to identify with any resurrectionists outside the complex.

As they change, there’s a little small talk-- _thank God I can get out of this stupid tie_ , and _Bokuto, you look pretty cute in those boots_ , but Akaashi’s silent. He’s looking over the curious amount of bracelets they’ve provided him with, unsure of why a survivor would need jewelry. Of course, they’re not flashy, but the point still stands.

There’s a few more items that only one of them would have; Akaashi’s got a black bandana he ties around his neck, Atsumu has a belt with a scabbard for a small, handheld knife that fits around his thigh. There are also five backpacks inside, each containing an equal amount of food, bottles of water, a first-aid kit, a walkie-talkie, bullets, and an extra pistol. They report by the pad again when they’re changed.

“We look pretty cool,” Bokuto remarks, jostling Kuroo, who’s got eyeblack on his cheeks.

Both are silenced by the presence of General Miya, accompanied by Osamu and a few other men. Next to him, dressed in a similar style as Akaashi’s squad, is a girl about their age. In her hands is a piece of paper.

“I’m not giving you any more directions,” says General Miya. His eyes flicker to the girl. Akaashi recognizes her face--pale skin, reddish hair, and half-lidded brown eyes--but he can’t seem to recall her name. He’s not even sure if he’s heard it before. “This is Shirafuku Yukie, the second survivor from Tokyo.”

Oh. So that’s why he recognized her. Just days after Akaashi joined the resurrectionists, he was introduced to a girl with a sunken face and hollow eyes, and hair so long he could barely gage her expression. She would not talk for months about her experience in Tokyo, and how she survived. She had been north of the city, and if the rumors were true, had escaped death by stabbing her hijacked older sister in the throat. She was fifteen at the time, Akaashi thinks.

Akaashi shudders at the thought. He wonders if he would’ve been able to kill Sarukui or Komi if he had to.

But she looks different now. Her hair is cut shorter, styled in two loose French braids on either side of her head. Her eyes, still dark and emotionless, are a little less traumatized and she looks well-fed. Her clothes are the same as Akaashi’s squad, but she’s got a baseball bat attached to her backpack. She looks like a character out of _The Walking Dead_.

“She and Akaashi are your guides,” says Miya. “Those walkie-talkies in your bags can connect you to each other, and you need to use them. Find the syringe, no matter the cost.” He looks each of them up and down. “We can’t keep losing resurrectionists. So stay alive as long as you can.”

It goes without saying this is the most dangerous mission they’ve been put on, and will be for the rest of their lives, if they survive. And the only way to survive is to be successful. Akaashi holds onto the thought that if they are successful, something will change.

Akaashi recognizes the pilots instantly. They’re the two people who rescued him four years ago, Ukai Keishin and Tanaka Saeko. They look the same, more or less. They don’t smile at him when he boards, only giving him a small nod. The helicopter is small, with two rows of three seats facing each other for each of the six people. Their water bottles are filled with cold water and they’re instructed to conserve it as long as possible--water sources in Tokyo are scarce, and the ones that do exist are heavily guarded by hijacked.

Ukai’s voice sounds over the speaker. “We’ll be heading as close in as we can. That looks to be a few miles south of the Tama River. That leaves you with approximately eight miles through the city. We’ll stay grounded at the river for no longer than four days but if we’re attacked, we will leave you.” 

Akaashi draws in a breath. Nobody would want to stay so close to Tokyo for longer than they have to, at least, no survivors. He wouldn’t blame Ukai and Saeko if they up-and-left the moment the last of his squad left the chopper.

He sits next to Bokuto on the far end, and Yukie sits on the other side of him. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t even spare Akaashi a glance. He’s a little surprised, because he thought she might be glad to see someone who has gone through something similar.

Similar. Akaashi’s experience can barely compare to hers.

But the thought doesn’t help him much, because he’s remembering being on the floor of this very helicopter, concussed, with a fractured larynx and stolen gun, fighting for his life. He grips the side of his seat, trains his gaze at Atsumu’s boots directly across from him. It's not the first time he's wished his past would just leave him alone.

“You okay?” Bokuto whispers. He didn’t realize how he might’ve projected to him, but it doesn’t look like anyone else has noticed his episode, save for Bokuto, who’s looking anxiously at him.

“Yes,” Akaashi says, relaxing his hands. He’s telling himself he’s fine, or at least trying, but the fact that he’s heading back to the city that those memories are so connected with is a little too personal.

“Don’t like helicopters?” Bokuto asks as the sound of blades whirring overhead fills Akaashi’s ears.

“No,” says Akaashi. “I don’t like _this_ helicopter.”

“Oh,” says Bokuto. But he doesn’t ask Akaashi to elaborate, for which Akaashi is grateful. All he does is put his hand gently over Akaashi’s own white-knuckled one, and Akaashi lets him.

As the chopper lifts off the pad, Akaashi turns, watching the Resurgence Alliance get smaller and smaller. He’s been outside the complex, sure, but he’s never seen it from above. When they move, the building disappears, hidden by the mountains and trees. They’ll be passing over the city of Kyoto soon, a desolate, deserted area plagued by survivors and hijacked alike. There’s nothing for them in Kyoto--the survivors are hostile, the shoot-on-sight kind, and the hijacked are even worse. 

It’s a few minutes of flying before they reach it. Buildings half-fallen, their foundations crumbling, roads cracked, and the dusty, dirty ambiance of hopelessness at every turn. Kyoto is half of what Tokyo looks like, Akaashi reminds himself, as they fly low over the buildings. Too high is flying into the beings’ atmosphere, meaning they could be easily spotted by their technology, but too low makes Akaashi anxious. He supposes it's in vain, because he's anxious anyway. 

“Is that Kyoto?” Bokuto murmurs, joining Akaashi as he looks through the window. “Are there any. . . people?”

“I don’t know,” Akaashi replies. “No factions in Kyoto, but survivors, I’ve heard.”

“Tanaka’s squad was sent to Kyoto,” Bokuto says. “They were sent to scout any factions. Apparently only two returned, out of the eight.”

“Tanaka. . . Saeko’s little brother?”

“Ryuunosuke, yeah,” Bokuto says. “Nishinoya was one of them, Ryuu was the other. But none of their squad was hijacked. They were just shot by survivors.”

“Nobody trusts anybody,” says Akaashi. It’s a stupid response but it’s the only thing he can say. He doesn’t know Nishinoya or Tanaka, and he can’t say he sides with the survivors, but in that kind of city, there’s no way you can trust anyone but yourself. Hijacking takes its form in a matter of days, and the first sign is easy to miss--pupils that don’t dilate when a light is shined into them. But in order to test that, you’d have to get very close to your subject and by that point, you’d probably already be shot. 

“It’s a big city,” Bokuto comments after another minute. “I wonder how many survived the collapse.”

“The Alliance had already been set up,” says Akaashi. “So I think lots of them went there.” He knows this is a lie, the Alliance did not take many Kyoto survivors. It was too close, and the chance of them being hijacked was too high. _There were more people to save,_ Akaashi wants to say. But he doesn’t want to upset Bokuto.

They’ve passed the previous-downtown of the city, now flying over the suburbs on the outskirts. It’s pretty, Akaashi thinks. Before the collapse, he’d been to Kyoto once as a child but he didn’t remember much of it. They lived nicely there, he knew, what with the way their homes were designed and the view of the city and the large high school, teeming with excited kids. Maybe he would’ve lived there when he grew up, had things been different.

A sudden bump jolts him back to reality, and he grabs onto Bokuto’s arm. By the looks of it, Atsumu, Kuroo, and Iwaizumi look surprised as well and this only sends more fear down Akaashi’s spine.

Saeko emerges from the cockpit. “It’s just. . .” Her voice falters.

“What?” asks Atsumu. “Turbulence?” His voice is somewhat sarcastic but he’s being serious.

The sun is low in the morning sky, and it’s a warm June--Akaashi doubts the possibility of turbulence. 

“No,” says Saeko. “There’s something else in the sky.”

“Ship,” Yukie mutters next to Bokuto, but it’s so quiet Akaashi doesn’t think anyone else heard. The beings fly around in their ships, miniature versions of the massive disks they use to invade cities with, nearly impossible to shoot down. But they’re few and far between, thought to only detect small amounts of people with limited foreign technology. If they could detect large amounts, the Resurgence Alliance would be destroyed. They seek out survivors, Akaashi thinks. It doesn't take a genius to know what their purpose is.

“Don’t you have a radar?” asks Kuroo. 

“Or a gun?” Atsumu adds.

“A radar with what signal?” asks Saeko sarcastically. “And no, we don’t have military-grade weapons. This is the apocalypse for Christ’s sake. We’ll just have to avoid it.” She turns back to Ukai in the cockpit. “Fly lower.”

“No way,” Ukai says. “Faction around here. We’ll be shot down in a second.”

“We’ll be shot down either way!” 

“Holy shit,” mutters Bokuto.

There’s a minute of silence, and Akaashi feels the helicopter descend just a little closer to the ground. The trees are closer, and he can see a little town in the distance. That must be the location of the faction Ukai was talking about.

“Is it still there?” Saeko asks, bending over Ukai’s seat.

“No,” says Ukai. “I think we lost it.”

And then, as if on cue, the chopper starts falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to you guys who are still reading! Your comments keep me going :')


	9. Chapter 9

Panic rushes through Akaashi’s veins as he feels his stomach drop, his hair rise. 

“Holy shit!” yells Atsumu, standing up.

“Sit your ass down!” Saeko screams, rushing to the cockpit as she and Ukai frantically try to regain control of the spiraling helicopter. “And buckle up, all of you!”

“What the hell happened?” cries Iwaizumi.

“We must’ve gotten hit or somethin’,” says Atsumu. “Holy shit, holy shit! Can’t you call the Alliance?”

“No signal!” is the muddled response from Saeko. She’s more invested in stopping the downfall of the chopper rather than giving General Miya a nice call.

Ukai rips down a microphone and tries to phone in, but he’s greeted by a radio static that only makes Akaashi more nauseous. The lights go out inside, so the only source is the window of morning sunlight the cockpit is letting in, and there’s a strange whirring sound. 

Akaashi feels his body go numb, seized by fear as he realizes with dread that something has shot off a part of the blades above. He grips Bokuto’s hand, hearing nothing but the sound of his voice, the yells and shouts from the others in the chopper, buries his head in Bokuto’s elbow as the ground shakes beneath him.

“Keiji! Keiji, holy shit, Keiji!” 

Akaashi opens his eyes and the sudden realization of his survival hits him. He’s still in the helicopter--of what’s left of it. It must have skidded along the ground, shedding the top and part of the side across from him. It was luck that Akaashi, Bokuto, and Yukie had sat on the side they did, because all Akaashi feels is a stinging pain in his temple.

Bokuto’s standing above him, with Yukie slung around his shoulders. 

Akaashi comes to immediately, standing up and checking Bokuto up and down for injuries. Aside from a few scraps and bruises, there’s nothing serious.

“Are you okay?” Bokuto asks. With his free hand, he comes up to trace the gash on Akaashi’s temple, and then brings his hand back to Yukie, this time bloody. 

“Yeah,” Akaashi says with a small nod. “Yeah, I’m fine, are you?”

“Yeah,” Bokuto replies. “Yukie’s out, but I think she passed out before impact.”

Impact. Akaashi turns his head to see the bodies of Kuroo, Iwaizumi, and Atsumu, scattered along the grass and underneath a large piece of rubble.

“Oh my God,” Akaashi whispers. “Bokuto, set her down gently. We have to get them out of there.”

Akaashi leaps down from the rubble, landing on the grass below, his head spinning. He makes his way over to Atsumu’s body and rolls him over, checking his pulse just below his ear with two fingers. It’s unmistakable, the steady pounding of his heart.

“He’s alive!” Akaashi cries to Bokuto with relief. He shakes him a little, and Atsumu’s dark eyes open, confused, searching his surroundings.

“Atsumu,” Akaashi says and Atsumu’s eyes fall on him.

“Fuck,” he says. “Did we die?”

“No,” says Akaashi. “We’re alive. Me and you and Bokuto and Yukie. Are you hurt?”

Atsumu props himself up on his elbows, looks at the scraps of metal that used to be the helicopter, turns around, and begins to heave out his breakfast. Akaashi hates watching people throw up, has always hated it, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He rubs Atsumu’s back as calmly as he can, coaxing him through it. 

“Keiji!” Bokuto calls and Akaashi turns around, his hand still on Atsumu. Bokuto tosses Akaashi’s bag and points down. “Iwaizumi’s okay!”

“Thank God,” Akaashi mutters.

“But Kuroo’s not.”

“Spoke too soon,” Atsumu muttered, wiping vomit off the bottom of his lip. “Got any water?”

Akaashi nods and gives him the water bottle. Atsumu takes a quick sip, gargles it in his mouth, and then spits it out next to the puddle of vomit. Akaashi cringes. Normally, he would’ve smacked him for wasting water, but the taste of puke is stinging and painfully in the throat, so he lets it slide. Then, Akaashi gives Atsumu his hand and helps him up.

He’s a little dizzy, but he can walk just fine, Akaashi realizes as Atsumu stumbles a bit. They jump across the rubble to see Kuroo’s body, crushed under a massive piece of debris.

Akaashi hears Atsumu exhale slowly. 

“Give Yukie to Akaashi. We’ll get this.”

“Are you sure you’re--” Bokuto begins, but Iwaizumi cuts him off.

“Do as he says,” Iwaizumi commands.

With a stiff nod, Bokuto gently hands Yukie to Akaashi, who slings her arm around his shoulders. Akaashi doesn’t give himself time to wonder if Iwaizumi’s injured, or if there’s something Atsumu’s covering up because the three of them grab the debris and pull it upwards, so as not to crush Kuroo’s abdomen. 

He’s a mess of blood and sweat and it takes Akaashi one look to see his ribs must be destroyed. Perhaps his knees too, the way the debris is angled. 

“One more,” Iwaizumi says. “We’re almost there.”

“Two, three!” Atsumu yells and there’s a crashing and the metal is completely off of him.

Kuroo blinks once, twice, amber eyes opening halfway. 

Bokuto and Atsumu rush to him, asking him dozens of questions while Iwaizumi offers to take Yukie. Akaashi is just about to deny and say that he’s okay with the extra weight of her body when he hears a low hum beneath his feet.

It’s the vibration that he first registers--they’re not alone.

“The ship!” Akaashi cries. “It’s coming back!” He hands Yukie off to Iwaizumi and rushes back into the rubble, digging through it to find Kuroo, Atsumu, and Iwaizumi’s packs. Luckily, Yukie’s is still slung over her shoulder like it was before the crash.

“Fuck!” Kuroo screams, pain laced through his tone and Akaashi turns to see Bokuto and Atsumu hoisting him up. “Fuck, fuck!” He lets out another groan of pain, and Akaashi’s eyes trail down to his legs.

It doesn’t look like his knees are crushed, but one of his feet very much is, from the way it hangs at a stiff angle in his boots, no doubt swollen beyond recognition. He sees the enormous gash on his upper thigh as well, his pants are drenched in blood.

“We have to move!” Bokuto yells to Akaashi, who’s grabbing Atsumu’s pack, snagged on a sharp-looking piece of metal.

“I’m moving!” Akaashi returns, releasing Atsumu’s pack. He slings all three of them over his shoulders, coupled with his own, and leaps down from the rubble.

“What about Saeko and Ukai?” asks Iwaizumi, pulling Yukie along with him.

“Dead already!” Atsumu says. “Now move it, or it’ll be us too!”

The vibrations beneath Akaashi’s feet are getting stronger, the hum is much more audible now. With an injured Kuroo and unconscious Yukie, Akaashi would’ve dismissed them to be already dead, but they’re lucky. This is a forest, rife with trees and plenty of places to hide. The beings will search the chopper, find Saeko and Ukai’s bodies, and deem them as the only passengers. This is what Akaashi tells himself over and over, trying to assure his own safety.

“Shh,” whispers Iwaizumi, grabbing Akaashi’s sleeve. His voice his low, his eyes wide. “They’re here.”

The five of them duck behind a fallen log, frozen in place. The humming turns to a screech as the ship stops. Akaashi presses his back to the damp log and slowly hands Iwaizumi his pack, followed by Atsumu. Then, he reaches to his belt and pulls out the pistol as smoothly as he can.

He peeks over the head of the log, trying to see the events. Two beings, he sees, and signals to Atsumu and Iwaizumi by showing them two fingers. 

The beings’ true forms are the subjects of Akaashi’s nightmares to say the least. They’re small, short creatures built like a spider, no bigger than a car tire. But their movements are unfit for Earth, their legs sluggish, leaving behind black slime wherever they go that drips from their abdomen. And right now, they’re trailing that sludge all over the helicopter, stopping at the cockpit. 

Akaashi’s breath lodges in his throat as he watches them pull out Saeko’s body with their legs. Then, they fling her against a tree and she lands with a thud. He realizes with a sickening feeling that they made the right choice in leaving the pilots--they were already dead.

The beings turns, crawling back into their ship and Akaashi tells himself they’re almost in the clear, but then one steps out. 

Akaashi ducks behind the log, breathing quickening, every muscle in his body screaming at him to run, that they could outrun these things, so long as they don’t get back in that God-foresaken ship, but they’ve got two incapacitated people, and Akaashi’s not too keen on leaving people behind.

Iwaizumi looks at him with wide, fearful eyes and Akaashi returns the gaze before looking straight ahead, knowing he has the attention of the group, and putting a finger to his lips. He doesn’t dare look over the log, not when he’s been spotted.

But it’s not him that was spotted, he notices. He hears a grunt in the distance, someone’s being taken. 

It’s Ukai. He was alive.

Akaashi gasps, then covers his mouth with his hand. The others hear it too, because Iwaizumi looks to Atsumu, motioning with the pistol, begging for permission to shoot them.

Atsumu, smartly, shakes his head. If they were to attack, the four of them that could fight, the beings would surely call in for more, and just past the outskirts of Kyoto, there’d be plenty of backup. They would be hijacked in an hour, and Bokuto would be dead, by his own squad’s hands.

Akaashi waits for the gurgling sound, signaling someone is being hijacked, but it doesn’t come. Instead, a cry of pain and the sound of flesh tearing.

“What are they doing?” Iwaizumi whispers. 

Akaashi feels like throwing up. Why won’t they just hijack him? Why harm a perfectly fit body?

“No!” It’s Ukai’s voice. “No! It was just me ‘n her! She’s dead!”

Another cry of pain.

“I don’t know. . . I don’t know who that is!” 

A sickening thunk, and Ukai goes quiet. A body dropped to the ground, and the ship’s hum again, and the beings are gone, in the direction they came, not over the log Akaashi is hiding behind.

Akaashi leans forward and throws up without any control. 

Iwaizumi places his hand on his back, runs his fingers through his hair. “Why would they kill him?”

“Don’t know,” Bokuto responds. “They could’ve. . . hijacked him.”

“I do,” Atsumu says, his face lined with sweat. He points a shaky finger at Bokuto. “They know we have ya.”

Bokuto blinks. “What?”

“They know humanity has an asset,” Atsumu says. “My father told me before we left. There's some chance, some fuckin’ chance the beings knew about Bokuto.”

“But how--”

“I don’t know!” Atsumu shoots back. “I don’t know! Fuck! We have to get out of here. We’re fucked!” He stands up, turns around and grimaces. “I’m sorry. Holy shit, I’m sorry.” His hands fly to his hair. “Holy shit, holy shit!”

“Shut up!” 

They look down, seeing Kuroo, his face contorted by pain. 

“God, just stop talking!” His jaw tightens. “It’s just like. . . just like fucking Kita.”

“Kuroo,” Atsumu says, his tone a warning.

“You still think about him. Don’t lie.”

Atsumu crosses his arms over his chest and is about to respond when Iwaizumi speaks up.

“Let’s go to that town,” he says, slinging Yukie over his shoulders. “Get him up,” he says to Atsumu and Bokuto. “And Akaashi, keep your gun loaded.”

Kuroo lets out a cry of pain when Bokuto and Atsumu hoist him over their own shoulders, and Akaashi confirms to himself that his ribs are most definitely broken. 

Akaashi takes the lead as they’ve been taught. The most able-bodied and armed should lead, especially into uncharted territory. It’s an unspoken rule that small towns are home to violent survivor factions, allergic to any outside contact, stacked with snipers trained to shoot on sight. But it's not like they have any other choice.

They walk for a few minutes, the trees growing dangerously thin and spaced-out, when Yukie finally comes to.

She wakes up less aggressively than the others, only with a sharp intake of breath, and Iwaizumi telling everyone to stop.

Bokuto and Atsumu are glad for the break, as they let Kuroo rest and Bokuto rustles through his pack, producing a bottle of painkillers. Akaashi knows they’ll hardly help against a broken foot and ribs, but it’s better than nothing.

Yukie looks around, sees their situation, and her face flashes with some unknown emotion.

“It usually ends like this,” she murmurs.

“Can you walk?” Iwaizumi asks.

“Yes,” she says. She takes his hand and goes to her feet then loads her gun with strange familiarity. “Where are we going?”

Iwaizumi blinks and points ahead. “Town. Kuroo’s injured, he won’t be able again for a while. We need some luck and we ain’t too lucky.”

“Factions,” mutters Yukie, but she walks alongside Akaashi nonetheless. 

Pressing on, ignoring Kuroo’s grunts of pain, Akaashi finds, without much surprise, Yukie’s not very talkative. He and Iwaizumi do most of the talking, and then finally, when they reach a road leading straight to the town a hundred or so meters away, they stop for a minute.

“I think Akaashi and I should scope it out,” says Iwaizumi.

“Yer gonna get shot,” Atsumu responds. “I won’t have it.”

“Better the two of us than you or Bokuto,” Iwaizumi says, and Atsumu can’t really argue that. Their mission revolves entirely around getting Bokuto to the syringe, and there’s no way to go back to the Alliance now, with the beings after Bokuto and the entire city of Kyoto acting as a barrier between them and their former home, the chances of them arriving are slim. Better, Akaashi thinks, to try to see the mission through to the end.

“But,” Bokuto begins, and he doesn’t finish. His eyes trail to Akaashi and he looks down. 

“What?” Atsumu asks. He looks at Bokuto once and then back to Akaashi. “Okay. You two go scope it out. We’ll stay here and protect Kuroo.” He unzips his pack and pulls out his walkie-talkie, motions for Akaashi to do the same. “Don’t lose it.”

Akaashi takes out his and nods. “Got it.”

Iwaizumi does the same. “We’ll reach out first.” 

Atsumu agrees, and Akaashi and Iwaizumi start down the road, following it next to the trees. They have to be the ones to initiate communication with the walkie-talkies, since if Atsumu does, he could be alerting their presence to any snipers. Akaashi turns to look back at Bokuto, who gives him a strange look, before tearing his gaze away and focusing on the task ahead. 

As they hug the trees, they realize the road is more desolate than it looks. For a minute, Akaashi considers the fact that maybe this town is nothing but a deserted wasteland, a victim of Kyoto’s initial collapse, home to no factions or hijacked--to nobody. That would be a gold mine of supplies, with the promise of rest and regeneration, maybe enough to get them safely to Tokyo.

But that is a thought Akaashi doesn’t allow himself to have for long.

"You knew Bokuto first," Iwaizumi says suddenly as they walk. "Does he mean a lot to you?”

Akaashi pauses. He doesn’t want to talk about this now. But Iwaizumi asked, so he figured he should answer that, at least. “Yeah.” He doesn’t tell Iwaizumi about how Bokuto is the reason he knows his own name, or the one who keeps him grounded in the resurrectionists, the only person with a sliver of hope for the future. He means a lot, not just to Akaashi, but to everyone.

“Oh,” says Iwaizumi. “Is that all?”

“Yeah,” Akaashi says. Why does Iwaizumi want to know? It’s a weird question to ask in such a situation. Bokuto was the first person Akaashi came to trust at the Alliance, he should say, but he doesn’t.

“He reminds me sorta of my boyfriend,” Iwaizumi says offhandedly.

“I know,” Akaashi says, well-aware of all the times Iwaizumi has compared Bokuto to his nameless boyfriend, the one Akaashi tells himself is probably dead, but has had no closure from Iwaizumi.

“He died in Miyagi,” Iwaizumi continues, “kinda like. . . Ukai. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking. It was just after that happened, I was remembering it and. . .”

“It’s okay,” Akaashi says. He looks around, feeling the cold weight of the pistol between his hands, a display of his own promise to protect them. “No one’s around.” 

“He was fighting one of them, and then he--” Just then, Iwaizumi’s voice trails off, eyes staring straight ahead. “What the hell is that?”

Akaashi looks up, and then pulls Iwaizumi behind a tree, anticipating a rain of bullets. It’s a wall, built by logs tied hastily together, covering the entrance to the town. So that's where the trees went, he thinks, to the faction wall. He holds Iwaizumi’s jacket close to him, already formulating a plan to take out any snipers or survivors with murderous intent. But after a minute, strangely, not a shot has been fired.

“It’s open,” Iwaizumi whispers. “The door.”

Akaashi peers past the tree and sees he’s correct. The wall is open, makeshift door of logs nearly falling off its hinges. Factions don’t keep their doors open, and surely not one this close to Kyoto. Plus, there should’ve been snipers by now, and Akaashi finds it weird that he hasn’t seen one person, or even the sound of life. Save for the absence of trees near the town, it doesn't look like anyone is living out of here. Perhaps they really were wrong in assuming a faction lived in the town.

“I don’t care about the wall,” Iwaizumi says. He takes Akaashi’s forearm and drags him closer, unfazed by the idea of hidden snipers. They stand directly in front of it, only a few meters from the interior, very much in view. “Look.” He points ahead and Akaashi sees it.

Red spray-painted graffiti on the side of a house near the window, visible over the wall, the symbol is unmistakable. A _P_ , an _X_ in the middle, and an _A_ and _W_ on the other side of it. 

The symbol of the resurrectionists, the symbol on their medallions.

Akaashi's breath catches in his throat, and he hears the sound of a gun safety being pulled back. 

"Hands in the air," a foreign voice says.


	10. Chapter 10

There’s a knee to the back of his legs, and Akaashi falls to the ground, along with Iwaizumi. He doesn’t pick his head up to look at the man. 

“Drop your guns,” the man says.

Akaashi stares at the pavement, hand still wrapped around his weapon. This is no hijacked, they could never speak with such fluency. He’s a survivor, and Akaashi’s not sure why he hasn’t been shot yet.

“Drop them,” another voice says, and then an explosion of pain in Akaashi’s temple--he’s been hit with the butt end of a gun.

Reflexively, he keels over, dropping his pistol, letting out a groan of pain. The hit wasn’t hard enough to knock him out but it certainly threatens his vision, and on top of the gash on his forehead from the helicopter crash, it’s the last thing he needs right now.

“It’s dropped,” Iwaizumi responds. “I promise. I’ve got nothing else on me.”

“Check their eyes,” says the man and Akaashi’s violently grabbed up and there’s a flashlight shown onto his eyes. He winces at the pain, feels bile build in his throat. 

“Clear,” says the man who checked his eyes.

“Him too,” says another in reference to Iwaizumi.

Akaashi’s brain is foggy from the hits, but he’s got enough in him to form a cohesive thought. What kind of faction is this, why are they still alive?

He brings his head up, focusing on the leader, standing in front of the both of them. He’s tall, with curly black hair and a mask covering half of his face. In his hands is a hunting rifle, and Akaashi thinks he sees his own blood at the end of it. 

“Bring them in,” says the man.

The man next to Iwaizumi, short, chestnut-haired with brown eyes pulls him to his feet, and Akaashi feels himself manhandled up, despite his throbbing head and blurry vision. 

“Wait,” Akaashi hears himself croak out. “Please, we have. . .” He thinks of Bokuto, of what an asset Bokuto would be to any survivor faction. He sees them finding him, taking him, refusing to give him back. He can’t let that happen. He pushes it away, his mind on Kuroo. “We have injured.”

“Injured?” Akaashi’s man, another curly black-haired one, looks to the leader. 

The leader looks Akaashi up and down. “Where did you come from?”

Akaashi blinks. Where _did_ he come from? Judging from the spray-painted resurrectionist symbol on the side of the house, he decides maybe it isn’t a great idea to say he’s from the Resurgence Alliance. 

“Kyoto,” Iwaizumi speaks before Akaashi. “We were living in the suburbs outside the city before the hijacked found us.”

The leader narrows his eyes and then looks to his men. “Check their necks.”

“For what?” Iwaizumi asks loudly, but it’s too late. The black-haired man grabs Akaashi’s neck and pulls out the medallion without much struggle. 

“Resurrectionists,” says the black-haired man, venom in his tone.

“Damn,” the leader mutters. “Shoot them.”

Akaashi feels all of his senses come to at the prospect of his sudden death, after all that happened to get him here. “Wait!” he cries as the black-haired man aims his gun at him. “It’s not. . . we’re not resurrectionists.”

The leader raises an eyebrow. “So what’s with the necklaces?”

Akaashi swallows, thinking hard. “We found them off some bodies in Kyoto.”

“We saw the graffiti too,” adds Iwaizumi. He wrestles his hands free from the chestnut-haired man and points to his medallion. “On the walls of some of the houses. We thought it could keep us safe if we had these. . . or something like that.”

“Fucking hell,” says the leader, and Akaashi hears the black-haired man snicker next to him. “You must be the dumbest group of people out there.” His eyes are blank and humorless despite his men's laughter. 

“Seriously,” says the chestnut-haired man. “I can’t believe the apocalypse lets these types of people survive while killing off the smart ones. Real fucked.”

The leader holds up a hand and the men go silent. “Matsukawa,” he says to the black-haired man, “go with. . . what’s your name?”

Akaashi figures it would be better to just tell him. “Ah. . . Akaashi.”

“Go with Akaashi and retrieve the injured person, I’ll have Kenma wait outside. Hanamaki, take this one in. There’s some things I need to ask him.” The leader’s eyes flicker over Iwaizumi and Akaashi’s heart races. There’s a high chance he’ll be brought back to Iwaizumi’s dead body riddled with bullets or better yet, Matsukawa will shoot Akaashi, Atsumu, Yukie, Kuroo, and Bokuto. But it’s not like he’s got another choice. His headache is pounding, his other pistol is in his pack too far away, and his hands are pinned behind his back.

Matsukawa pushes Akaashi, and he begins to walk. Then, Akaashi feels his hands released from Matsukawa’s grip, only to realize they’re tied with rope. He wonders when that happened, perhaps when the leader struck him with the butt of his rifle, left him writhing on the ground in pain.

“You’re lucky you’re a good liar,” says Matsukawa coolly as they walk down the trail.

Akaashi doesn’t address this. He’s still debating whether he should actually lead Matsukawa to where Bokuto, Kuroo, Yukie, and Atsumu are or if he should simply just walk him as far away as possible and then wait for Matsukawa to get angry and shoot him. 

“I said, you’re--”

“I heard you,” Akaashi breaks in.

Matsukawa hums. “And you’re from the Resurgence Alliance?”

“No,” Akaashi answers. “We’re from Kyoto.”

“I believe that much,” Matsukawa says. “The part about the necklaces, that’s bullshit. No way any survivor is stupid enough to take those for _safety_.”

“It was a good idea at the time,” Akaashi says simply, hoping that will be enough.

Matsukawa laughs. “It’s a walking target, those things.”

“You’ve got it spray-painted on one of those houses,” Akaashi says matter-of-factly.

“Maybe you guys survived out of a basement,” Matsukawa muses. “Fallout shelter maybe? That explains why you’re so out-of-the-loop.”

“I don’t understand,” Akaashi replies.

Matsukawa turns, pointing to the town getting smaller behind them, referencing the red graffiti on the house. “That keeps us _safe_ , dumbass. They didn’t do that to your little Kyoto suburbs, did they? Guess not, if you've got the bright idea to disguise yourself as one of 'em.”

For the first time, Akaashi meets Matsukawa’s eyes. “No. They didn’t.” He doesn’t tell him that the resurrectionists’ job is to communicate with the outside world, to bring in survivors, and to monitor the situation. They’ve got no use for a strangely hospitable survivor faction, and if Kuroo wasn’t injured, they’d be well on their way to Tokyo.

“Christ,” says Matsukawa. “If I believed that, you’d be lucky.”

“I’m not lucky,” Akaashi says.

“Yeah you are. If the resurrectionists haven’t stormed your home and killed everyone yet, that'd make you pretty lucky.”

Akaashi leads Matsukawa to where the others are hiding without another word. He tells Atsumu to put the gun down, that Matsukawa won’t hurt them. Then, as he’s helping Kuroo up, Akaashi turns to Atsumu and points to the medallion.

“Make sure they don’t find it,” he says.

Atsumu furrows his brow. “What? Why?” His is still tucked under his shirt out of sight, but Akaashi figures it's worth warning him about before they get further into the faction.

Akaashi doesn’t answer, as Matsukawa already brought Kuroo up with the help of Bokuto, and they’ve begun walking back to the town. Akaashi follows them closely, right behind Bokuto, with Atsumu and Yukie next to him. Atsumu is telling her in a quiet voice to conceal her resurrectionists’ medallion when they reach the gates.

Outside, there’s a small boy with dyed blonde hair and overgrown roots. He’s waiting with another taller man with a mohawk, both of them with their guns drawn.

“Got, ‘em, Kawa!” the mohawk-man says. “I thought they were gonna shoot you. Sakusa said they’re resurrectionists.”

“We’re not,” Akaashi says to Matsukawa deliberately loudly, sensing Bokuto’s desire to refute the statement. Luckily, he keeps his mouth shut, only sparing Akaashi a small glance of confusion. 

As they enter through the gates, both men take Kuroo by the shoulders and he lets out a cry of pain. 

“What the hell happened?” murmurs the other man, tucking a strand of hair out of his face.

“Don’t know,” says Mastukawa. “Didn’t ask.”

“We were attacked by hijacked,” says Akaashi, hoping it will line up with whatever story they have Iwaizumi telling them in the town. 

The man with dyed hair frowns. “What kind of hijacked did this?” He pulls Kuroo’s shirt up just a little, exposing the bruised, swollen skin underneath. Kuroo winces, gritting his teeth. “Let’s bring him to the infirmary, Tora.”

“But Sakusa said if--”

“I don’t care,” says the man. “Do you think he’s in any condition to be attacking us?”

“So we nurse a resurrectionist back to health? What kind of bullshit is that?”

The man ignores him, turning to Mastukawa. “Shut the gate. And take the rest of them to Sakusa.”

“Sakusa?” Bokuto asks and Matsukawa pulls out his gun to escort them through the barren streets.

“Our leader. The mayor,” he says with a hint of sarcasm.

“Mayor? What kind of--”

The muzzle of Matsukawa’s gun hits Bokuto in his lower back and he cries out. Akaashi steps closer to him and takes his hand, looking at Matsukawa with a hard stare.

“Shut up, will ya?” Matsukawa says. “Sakusa’s the mayor, what he says goes, and he says you all need your own separate rooms so he can question you.”

At the sound of this Akaashi’s mind blanks and he turns to Atsumu, who shakes his head slightly with wide eyes. They're both thinking the same thing; no way should Bokuto be allowed to room with himself during an _interrogation_ of all things, it would be all too easy for him to spill secrets. 

“We can’t,” Akaashi says quickly. 

Matsukawa raises an eyebrow as they walk past a few houses. “Whaddya mean you can’t? It’s not up to you.”

“Please,” Akaashi says. He points to Bokuto. “He’s. . . he’s got really bad DID.”

“DID?” Matsukawa asks. “The hell is that?”

“Personality disorder,” explains Akaashi, glancing to Bokuto, begging for him to play along. Bokuto only blinks and Akaashi thinks with despondency that maybe _he_ doesn’t know what DID is either. “He's had it since before the collapse. He detaches a lot. He could forget where he is and have a breakdown.”

Matsukawa makes a face. “What do you want me to do about that?” They turn a corner, ducking under some barbed wire, to a house that is fenced off from the others.

“I need to stay with him,” Akaashi says. “Please. For his safety and for yours.”

Matsukawa pushes open the door to this house and stares at the floor, brow furrowed. “Fine. Fine, I don’t give a fuck. Just. . . don’t be difficult, got it? You’re damn lucky we didn’t shoot you and that other guy outside.”

Akaashi swallows, thinking of Iwaizumi, and Matsukawa ushers the four of them upstairs, that creak and moan with age. The house looks like it might’ve had a nice family in it four years ago, but it’s long deserted from its old job now, made use of by this survivor faction. The kitchen’s almost empty, and the upstairs has three separate bedrooms. Akaashi and Bokuto are pushed into one, and the door is locked behind them quickly. Akaashi yells for Matsukawa, trying to ask him where Atsumu and Yukie will be held, but he gets no response. 

“They have to be put in another house,” Akaashi says to Bokuto, his back to the door. “Otherwise they’d have heard me yell.”

Bokuto nods, strangely quiet. He looks around, fiddling with his hands, taking in his surroundings. It’s a nice room, probably used to belong to two young boys, what with the peeling blue paint on the walls, bunk beds, desks, and a few soccer posters still left hanging. There’s a thin stream of morning spring sunlight wafting in from a set of boarded-up windows and an old empty dresser, with a few action figures still sitting atop it.

“What’s wrong?” Akaashi asks, but he knows it’s a loaded question. There’s lots of things wrong, and asking Bokuto will just be pointless.

Bokuto sits on the lower bunk bed wordlessly and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Bokuto,” Akaashi says, walking over and sitting next to him. The mattress is bare, stripped of its sheets, lumpy and uncomfortable and Akaashi finds he’d rather stand and talk to him but it doesn't matter.

“I’m sorry about this.”

“What?” Akaashi asks with a frown. “Sorry about. . . this? It’s not your fault.”

Bokuto shakes his head. “It is, really. If. . . if I had just gone to Tokyo four years ago. . .”

“What are you saying?”

“When I broke out of Yokota, I knew about it. . . that syringe. They told me.” He grips the edge of the mattress. “They said. . .” He clears his throat. “The last piece was in Tokyo, ready for me, and if I went there, I could save everyone.”

“Bokuto, it’s not your fault,” Akaashi says quietly, placing his hand on Bokuto’s thigh. “You were eighteen, you were still a kid.”

Bokuto shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I. . .” He stands up and unbuckles his belt, pushing down his pants just below his hips, moving his boxers aside to reveal a long, jagged white scar snaking from the top of his hipbone to below where his pants were. Akaashi didn’t want to know how far it extended, he had never seen it before. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

Bokuto brings up his pants and redoes his belt. “I got attacked by a being just outside of Tokyo, an actual being, not a hijacked. With its little legs. Sharp bastards.”

“Outside of Tokyo?” Akaashi repeats. “I thought you were found near Yokota. That’s what they said, that you were unconscious near the air base.”

Bokuto shakes his head. “No. I was near Tokyo. I was bleeding out when Ukai and Saeko found me.”

Akaashi frowns, eyes settling on the mattress where Bokuto had just sat down. “Why would they. . . lie about that?”

Bokuto hesitates. “I don’t know. I tried to figure that out myself, but Ukai and Saeko wouldn’t tell me. And now they’re dead, so I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Oh,” Akaashi says. There’s a brief moment of silence and then Akaashi’s hand returns to Bokuto’s thigh. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bokuto leans into him, forehead resting on his shoulder. “I didn’t think it would do you any good.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bokuto shrugs. “All your weird pent-up trauma that you don’t talk about. I didn’t want to. . . y’know, burden you with this information. And besides,” he says, tone more optimistic, “we’re already here, and we’re lucky to be alive after that! We can get to Tokyo and nobody else has to die.”

“Yeah,” Akaashi muses, breathing in Bokuto’s scent, the smell of his shampoo mixed with sweat and blood. “We have to get out of here.”

“Now?” Bokuto asks. “We’re locked in, Keiji, I don’t think--”

“Not now,” Akaashi cuts in, “but soon. I don’t trust this place.” He considers telling Bokuto about what Matsukawa said earlier, the resurrectionists and their crimes against the survivors. But, like Bokuto, he doesn’t want to burden him with this information. Despite the fact that Bokuto may have figured out because of how the men with dyed hair were talking earlier, he doesn't want to bring it up altogether, because there is no way Bokuto found out about what the resurrectionists do near Kyoto. He tells himself that this is different, this is information Bokuto truly _doesn’t_ need to know. His blind, optimistic hope cannot be shattered, because without it, they really _will_ never reach Tokyo.

Bokuto takes off his pack, sets it on the floor next to them, and falls back onto the bed, his arms sprawled out on either side of him, looking up at Akaashi. “Keiji, why DID?”

Akaashi traces over Bokuto’s outstretched arms, the gentle curves of his biceps. “I don’t know. I had a cousin with it before the collapse and it was the first thing that came to mind.” He takes off his own pack, placing it next to Bokuto’s. “Do you know what it is?”

Bokuto shrugs. “Eh. From movies and such.”

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter,” Akaashi says absentmindedly. “It was just a ploy to get us in a room together.” Akaashi lies down next to Bokuto and Bokuto turns, amber eyes glistening. With sudden, humiliating regret, Akaashi realizes how skewed his words came out.

“Really?” Bokuto asks with a sly smile. “Couldn’t be away from me?”

“Bokuto,” Akaashi says scoldingly, heat rising to his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

Bokuto frowns. “I know what you meant. But come on! You don’t wanna have a little fun?”

Akaashi sighs. “It’s not like anyone can really date in this world anyway.”

“Date?” Bokuto repeats, eyes wide. “That’s not even what I meant, but I’ll take it! You’d really date me, Keiji? ‘Cause you’re not so bad yourself.”

Akaashi pauses. “Are you flirting with me, Bokuto?”

Bokuto props himself up on his elbows, looking at the wall opposite them, that playful expression still on his face. “Maybe I am.”

Akaashi gives a small smile, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s hardly the time. Fucking hell. Iwaizumi is God-knows-where, Atsumu and Yukie are definitely separated, and it’s doubtful Kuroo can come with us even if we do escape. What a mess.”

Bokuto pauses. “We could bust out of here. We could knock down the door.”

“And go where?” Akaashi asks. 

“Find the others and get out of here.”

“That’s stupid,” says Akaashi. “We don’t know how big this town is, and they might have guards on the other side of the door. We’d just put ourselves at a greater risk. And even if it does work, how do we take Kuroo? We’d have no choice but to leave him here. Better to wait it out and see what happens.”

“Hopefully that Sakusa guy is nice,” Bokuto says lightly.

“He didn’t shoot Iwaizumi and me when we got close. I’d say he’s nicer than the other faction leaders.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto says, hopeful agreement in his voice. “Yeah, I’m sure he’s fine. We’ll be fine, Keiji.” He looks at Akaashi and frowns, stretching out a hand to Akaashi’s bangs. 

Akaashi flinches as his fingers brush his hair, feels the stinging pain in his temple again. He had almost forgotten completely about his mild injury from the crash, and wasn’t sure how much dried blood coated his face, it had completely skipped his mind.

"Where's this bruise from?" he asks and Akaashi remembers getting hit with the end of Sakusa's rifle, starbursts of pain in his head. It's dulled to a throbbing sensation, much more tolerable than it used to be. He doesn't answer. "You've still got some blood from the crash too."

“It’s fine, Bokuto,” says Akaashi as Bokuto pulls his hand away. “I forgot about it anyway.”

“No,” Bokuto says. He sits up and leans forward, rustling through his pack and pulls out a first-aid kit a few seconds later. He pulls out an alcohol wipe and leans over, dabbing it gently on Akaashi’s wound. Akaashi lets him, relishing in the satisfying sting of the alcohol on the cut, eyes flickering over Bokuto's face as he works. He drags the cold wipe down his face a little, picking up any blood that has dried to his skin. Then, Akaashi touches his face gently, and there’s no more blood, it feels unnaturally clean compared to the rest of his body.

“Thank you,” he says.

Bokuto sits up. “Yeah.” He turns his head, tossing the used wipe on the floor. 

As he does, Akaashi catches sight of a small scratch on his lower cheek, tracing his jawline. It’s very small, smaller than Akaashi’s wound, but he feels compelled to return the favor. 

“Let me do you,” Akaashi says, commanding, sitting up. He grabs another alcohol wipe and Bokuto shakes his head, hand flying up to his jaw.

“It’s not that bad,” Bokuto says.

“Bokuto.”

He gives a defeated sigh. “Okay.”

Akaashi tilts Bokuto’s head a little, gently wiping off the blood with the wipe. He determines from the size of this scratch, it’s likely not from the crash at all, but from careless running while holding an injured person, and getting whacked across the throat with a particularly sharp branch sticking out into the path. Akaashi feels Bokuto’s heart racing as he finishes, fingers touching his pulse delicately. He holds them there, calming himself with the steady beat of Bokuto’s heart, hands brushing up against his neck.

He doesn’t realize the intimacy of their position until Bokuto pulls away.

Akaashi’s hand returns to its place at his side. “Sorry. Better things to think about.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto agrees, red-faced. “Better things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this scene for a while, so I hope you enjoyed reading it! Thank you all for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

Akaashi jolts awake after accidentally dozing off on the mattress. He reaches out with his hand, and his hair stands on end when he finds the space next to him empty.

“Bokuto,” Akaashi calls, sitting up and looking around the room. “Bokuto!”

His heart is racing and he looks around with fear, for any spaces Bokuto might have slipped out of. The windows are still boarded up with no sign of breakage and the door closed tight.

He stands up, ducking his head so he won’t hit the top bunk. Dizzy and incognizant, he vaguely wonders what time of day it is. Peering through the space between the boards on the window, he concludes it has to be around two or three in the afternoon--in short, he slept way too long.

“Why didn’t he wake me?” Akaashi wonders aloud, trying to catch a glimpse of the people in the faction. This house, _prison house_ , his brain happily supplies for him, is rather distanced from the rest, but he can see other people milling about, mostly adult men and women. It seems like nobody has their own house, as is typical of survivor factions, but everyone works exclusively together, utilizing the best of their abilities to retrieve food and supplies, stand watch, and keep as hygienic as possible. But Akaashi doesn’t notice specifically their actions first, it’s the fact that the tasks they are doing look so day-to-day, as if they didn’t even notice the presence of resurrectionists in their faction.

Uneasy, Akaashi concludes they simply don’t care so that his brain shuts up with the possibilities of a public execution. As is also typical for survivor factions.

“Bokuto!” Akaashi calls again. Again, there’s no answer. It’s hopeless, Akaashi thinks, he’s gone. When he turns and looks at the door, old, thin, easy to break, he thinks he’s got nothing else to lose. He steps forward, intent to twist the knob and see if he’s really got to bust down this door. 

However, the knob twists all the way around, and the door opens with a click.

 _Oh_. He isn’t expecting that.

Akaashi doesn’t let himself stand complacent for long. He turns, grabs his pack and Bokuto’s, slinging them both over his shoulder, and draws in a breath as he steps into the hallway.

The wood croaks and moans under his weight, and he bites his lower lips to prevent a curse to come out. Using his tippy-toes, Akaashi makes his way over to the top of the stairwell, his stomach doing another flip-flop when he sees it’s made of the same unsteady wood he was just walking on.

“You don’t have to be all sneaky. We know you’re there.”

A familiar voice--Akaashi’s brain links it back to the gate, the man in the mask, the butt of a rifle slamming into his temple. He registers that _this_ is the voice of Sakusa the mayor, as Matsukawa called him.

Akaashi hesitates before walking down the stairs. The kitchen is still empty, but he can see the dining room, where an old empty table sits curly-headed Sakusa, hunting rifle leaned against his chair, Bokuto, Yukie, Matsukawa, and the mohawk man who took Kuroo.

“What the hell is this?” Akaashi asks, clutching the straps of his and Bokuto’s pack. “Where’s Atsumu and Iwaizumi?”

“With Kuroo,” says Bokuto, motioning for Akaashi to sit on an empty seat next to him. “Don’t be mad please, you were sleeping so well.” He turns to Sakusa, jabbing his thumb at Akaashi. “He always has nightmares and yells out, but he didn’t this time. I didn’t want to wake him.”

Akaashi does not sit on the chair. “What the fuck is going on? I thought we were in holding.”

“You are,” says Sakusa. “I’m a very nice prison guard though, so I’ve let you explain yourselves.”

The mood shifts around the room, and Bokuto stares at his lap. He’s done something, Akaashi can tell. Now he only has to find out what. 

“I don’t understand,” Akaashi says. “We’re travelers and we need to get to Tokyo. We’re not interested in factions.”

Yukie looks up at him and there’s a slight shake of her head. Akaashi’s heart stops. What is happening?

“We know you’re resurrectionists,” says Sakusa coldly. “We found a helicopter crash a mile or so off our borders. Maybe a few hours old, straight from the Alliance. Stop trying to lie.”

Akaashi purses his lips and remains silent.

“So why haven’t you killed us?” Yukie asks suddenly, and Akaashi thinks it’s the first time he’s heard her speak.

Sakusa raises his eyebrows and his gaze flickers to the mohawk man. 

Uncomfortably, he clears his throat. “My name’s Yamamoto, first of all. I’m Kenma’s assistant in the infirmary and--”

“They don’t care,” Sakusa interrupts. “Tell them.”

Tell us what, Akaashi thinks, a little nervous.

“Uhm. . . a few weeks ago my little sister Akane went out with our rations group. They go to Kyoto and try to find any food they can. It’s stuff we can’t grow here, like alcohol and soup and whatever. They ran into a group of hijacked and all of them were taken, including her. I don’t know how, but she managed to make it back here and I found her.” His voice fades off, and he catches a look from Sakusa that makes him open his mouth again. “She was fully hijacked, black eyes and all, but I. . . I didn’t tell anyone. She would’ve been killed, and I didn’t want. . . I didn’t want that. I hid her in the basement of the infirmary so no one would find her.”

Akaashi thinks with despair that he knows where this is going. Bokuto’s guilty look, a hijacked girl hidden away. . .

“But he said something when he visited Kuroo. And. . . and now. . .” Yamamoto furrows his brow, his hands ball into fists on the table. His eyes go to Bokuto. “She’s not hijacked. He did something and she’s human again.”

Akaashi feels the blood drain from his face and his hands begin to sweat. That was the top of his rules, that Bokuto’s ability remains a secret, only to be revealed in a very dire situation should one present itself. Not this. Not this random faction that didn’t even shoot on sight, instead gave them a second chance, _this_ was not a dire situation.

“Keiji. . .” Bokuto begins, switching back to Akaashi’s first name. “Keiji, I just wanted to--”

“No,” Akaashi says, turning on him. He remembers being briefed on this mission in General Miya’s office, with Bokuto next to him.

_“And never tell anyone from a faction about him,” Miya had said, pointing to Bokuto. “They’ll kill all of you and keep him so they can have his ability. Far too risky. Do you understand?”_

_“Yes,” said Akaashi._

_“Bokuto,” General Miya said._

_“I got it,” Bokuto said with finality._

“What did he say?” Akaashi asks, his voice rising. “And you said you had it, you said--”

“Akaashi!” 

Akaashi’s state of anger and frustration is broken by Yukie, who seems to be talking a lot more lately. He looks at her with fury.

Her gaze is equally as terrifying. “It’s not gonna change anything,” she says, returning to her monotone, and Akaashi hates that she’s right. 

He straightens up. He shouldn’t have yelled at Bokuto, he knows this, and yelling at him won’t help them. Sakusa knows, Yamamoto knows, everyone knows. And he’s still alive, he reminds himself. Any other faction would have killed him.

He looks down at Bokuto, whose eyebrows are drawn up and looks like he’s about to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Bokuto looks back at his lap.

“So sit down, Akaashi,” says Sakusa, venom in his tone.

Akaashi doesn’t want to, but figures he’s got no other choice. He sits at the chair Bokuto had offered him earlier, slipping Bokuto his pack. Then, he folds his hands out in front of him and tenses his jaw. 

“Akaashi,” Sakusa begins, summoning Akaashi’s attention. 

Akaashi looks at him, at his cold and uncaring gaze, as hard as he possibly can. He doesn’t want to lose to Sakusa, not after all this. Tokyo is more than just a destination now.

“You’re the leader, I take it?” Sakusa asks. “I don’t understand how things work at the Alliance, but there’s got to be a leader.”

Akaashi knows Atsumu’s the leader, but because it’s Sakusa asking and because Akaashi finds he doesn’t really like Sakusa all that much, he nods. “Yes. I’m the leader.” Then, he kicks Bokuto under the table, ensuring his silence. Bokuto stares at the table blankly. He knows to play along.

Sakusa looks to Matsukawa, presumably for confirmation, who only shrugs.

“It makes sense,” Matsukawa says. “They sent him and that other guy Iwaizumi to scope us out. Anyone would send their leader.”

Sakusa turns to Akaashi again. “How do we know it’s not Iwaizumi?”

Akaashi shrugs. “Guess you don’t.” Worst thing happens, he thinks, he’ll be falsely executed as the leader and Bokuto and the others will be sure to escape and make for Tokyo. Him or Iwaizumi.

Sakusa’s eyes narrow a bit and then he speaks again. “Why are you here?”

“Because you took us,” Akaashi answers dryly.

“No,” Sakusa replies, a little annoyed, “why are you going to Tokyo? That’s the most dangerous city in Japan by far, hell, it’s pretty much the beings’ home base in Asia. No way a bunch of jacked-up resurrectionists could just waltz in without getting killed or hijacked.”

Akaashi contemplates how to answer this without fully giving up their mission. He looks to Yukie, who motions to Bokuto with her head. She’s trying to tell him something, but he’s not sure if he knows what.

“Well,” he begins, keeping his eyes on Yukie, “Bokuto’s our asset. He’s our protection.”

“Okay,” says Sakusa. It looks like he’s noticed the interaction between Akaashi and Yukie. “So Bokuto would like to say the mission, wouldn’t he?”

Akaashi’s throat seizes up. No, Bokuto would not like to say it. He’s the worst liar by far, and he’ll give away the mission in an instant, either that or he'll lie so terribly Sakusa will just kill them out of annoyance. But giving it up is far worse, Akaashi knows this without a doubt. Whatever secret that syringe holds, whatever way it can help regain the planet, will now be in the careless hands of a Kyoto survivor faction.

“Fine then,” says Bokuto. “I’ll say it. There’s a resurrectionist there who found something that could really help humanity.”

“Which is?”

“We don’t know,” answers Bokuto. “But we know he’s alone there and we have to get him to safety.”

“What’s his name?”

“Konoha.”

“Full name?”

“Akinori Konoha, he’s twenty-two, kinda sandy blonde hair, small eyes, led by Ryuunosuke Tanaka in the second division resurrectionist unit. They went AWOL about a month ago and were presumed dead, or living out near Tokyo, but contact was made with Konoha, who said he’s got something we need. They wouldn’t tell us what, but we know it’s super important.”

Sakusa raises an eyebrow but it’s clear he believes the story.

“Please, Sakusa! I’m not lying,” Bokuto says. “It’s a really time-sensitive mission, we gotta get to Tokyo. Or else he could be killed and this'll all be for nothing.”

“Time-sensitive,” Sakusa repeats with disgust. “Everything’s time-sensitive these days.” He stands up and turns to Matsukawa. “Fine. I’ll let them talk to Kozume about that other guy, Kuroo or whatever his name was.” Then, he leaves the house, slamming the door behind him.

Akaashi’s insides are on fire, his heart his hammering, and he can only look at Bokuto, and then at Yukie, who, beneath her monotonous stare, looks surprised too. _Where did that come from?_

Matsukawa gets up with Yamamoto, ready to walk out as well. Akaashi follows him with Bokuto and Yukie, whispering as he goes.

“Bokuto, how did you. . .”

“You all underestimate me,” whispers Bokuto proudly. 

“But who is--”

“Konoha’s real,” he replies. “But real dead. Or real alive. I don’t know. He was my best friend before the collapse. Rest of it I just made up.” He shrugs nonchalantly, basking in the knowledge that he was holding out on them.

Heart swelling with pride, Akaashi decides to keep quiet. There’s no way Matsukawa heard them seeing as he is speaking with Yamamoto ahead, but the fact that they’re now in a public space is a little more daunting. 

The streets are still teeming with people doing their work, pulling their load. They only spare Akaashi and the others a momentary glance before returning to their duties. Akaashi realizes that with their casual old clothing and supplies on their backs, they look just like any other survivors.

They’re cutting up meat, picking vegetables from the small lined farms, preparing dinner. Some people wash clothing in buckets of water, others talk quietly while sharpening weapons and loading guns. The sound of target practice rings out, training Akaashi remembers from being back at the Alliance. Some people are even knitting. Despite the warm May weather, there’s hats and gloves made from the fabric of old clothing, preparing for the coming winter months. Without heat, winter is brutal, and it must be worse in the factions, where they’re truly alone.

Akaashi looks away as they continue down the streets to an old building that must have been a church at one point. Now, the windows are boarded up and there’s a barbed fence around it, with a wooden sign out front reading, _Infirmary - Kenma & Tora_.

Matsukawa ducks under the fence and motions for the others to do the same. He leads them past the door and down the old pews, which have been stripped of their backboards and pushed together, transformed into a few makeshift beds. Akaashi spots Kuroo’s messy black head of hair on the last one, closest to the large wooden crucifix. Next to him sits three figures, Atsumu and Iwaizumi, and the man with short, dyed hair whom Akaashi recognizes from earlier.

“Kenma!” says Yamamoto, and Kenma looks up, points to Kuroo, and puts a finger to his lips.

As they come closer, Akaashi gets a better look at him. Kuroo is asleep, a few white blankets bundled around his torso. His shirt is gone and there’s a large amount of gauze wrapped around his ribs, and the black-and-blue of his skin is still visible beneath them. His resurrectionist medallion is gone as well.

“He’s got three broken ribs and a broken foot,” Kenma says as they examine him. Then, his eyes flash, catlike, at Akaashi. “Heard you were going to Tokyo.”

“Yes,” says Akaashi.

Kenma throws something up and catches it, eyes flickering between Atsumu and Iwaizumi and Akaashi. Akaashi realizes as he catches it that it’s Kuroo’s medallion. “What a shitty place. It’s where I lived for a bit after the collapse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for short filler-y chapter and thank you for reading once again!


	12. Chapter 12

Silence blankets the room.

“You said. . . after?” repeats Akaashi with disbelief. 

Kenma nods. “One year.” He stares at the medallion in his fingers and then places it atop Kuroo’s chest. 

“So you know what it’s like,” Atsumu says. “And you can help us.”

Kenma looks at him and then sits down. “Mattsun and Tora, you can go.”

“What?” asks Yamamoto, irritated. “But I wanna hear what you did in Tokyo too.”

“You’ll learn some other time.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” Kenma says. “Go with Mattsun.” Then, he turns to the others and sits down, taking Kuroo’s hand in his and lacing their fingers together. He waits until the doors to the church finally close before looking at the group. “I knew Kuroo before this. We lived in a little town like twenty miles out of Tokyo.”

“You were friends?” asks Atsumu.

Kenma purses his lips. “In a way. But we saw the first disk over Tokyo. We tried to run with the rest of the town but the military got there first. They killed all the kids and left some adults to be hijacked. They must’ve missed us, ‘cause they left the town deserted and we hid out there for a day or so. Then, Kuro suggested we leave to look for food just anywhere in the town, and apparently. . . it wasn’t all deserted. We were attacked by hijacked and separated. Then, I saw the helicopter come down and pick Kuro up.” Kenma’s voice hitches. “I thought he might tell them to look for me. But he didn’t.”

“What about Tokyo?” asks Iwaizumi, clearly uninterested in Kenma’s backstory with Kuroo. Atsumu shifts uncomfortably next to him, but Iwaizumi’s right--they don’t care about Kenma’s past with Kuroo. All they need to focus on is Tokyo, and surviving in it.

Kenma’s gaze flickers to his and Kuroo’s interlocked fingers. “I went to Tokyo after I ran out of food in the town. It’s. . . it’s hell on Earth. First of all, there’s the disk--you can’t be directly under it or else you might get shot. The beings fly their little ships around every couple of hours, but. . . but if you’re smart, you can use that. They monitor the hijacked, don’t know why, so wherever there’s a ship, there’s usually a large group of hijacked around it. But not all the time.

“That’s all, really. Just know that everyone’s gonna kill you whether they’re hijacked or human. It’s too dangerous to take chances and a small group is. . . easier.” Kenma looks at Kuroo and then to Akaashi. “Sakusa said he thought you were the leader. Or you.” He looks to Iwaizumi. “How many are going?”

Iwaizumi glances at Akaashi and then instinctively to Atsumu, the real leader. It’s obvious that Kuroo is in no condition to travel, but Akaashi wonders whether it’s safe to leave him here with the faction. He’s about to say six, that they’ll work with Kuroo and take it easy, but Iwaizumi speaks before.

“Five,” says Iwaizumi. “Me, Atsumu, Bokuto, Yukie, and Akaashi.”

Kenma’s eyes flash. “Good. Kuro isn’t in any condition to go somewhere like that.”

Akaashi looks at Iwaizumi with confusion and Iwaizumi nods in agreement to Kenma’s words. Akaashi hates that he’s right--taking someone with Kuroo’s injuries somewhere as intense as Tokyo would only get everyone killed.

“It’s settled then,” Iwaizumi says, standing up. “We’ll get him on the return.”

“Return?” echoes Kenma. Traces of lightheartedness paint his tone, and Akaashi realizes he doesn’t think there will be a return trip. 

Iwaizumi looks at him with a hard stare. “Yes. Return. He’s not yours.”

Kenma raises his eyebrows. “Whatever you say, resurrectionist.”

“You understand how serious this mission is?” Iwaizumi asks, but his voice is not condescending. It’s even genuine. 

Kenma blinks. “I’m sure.” He points to Bokuto. “I saw what he could do. He seems pretty important.”

“He is. And so is Tokyo, and Kuroo too.”

“If you didn’t hear me before, Kuroo has three broken ribs and a broken foot. If you wanna lug him around the most dangerous city in Japan, by all means,” he says, his face blank, “be my guest.”

Iwaizumi holds Kenma’s stare for another agonizing couple seconds and then he turns to Akaashi. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning,” he says to the others, while staring directly at Kenma. “Let’s go.”

Akaashi is about to follow Iwaizumi out, where he presumes they’ll find Matsukawa for a place to stay the night, but he catches sight of a lingering Bokuto, gazing longingly at Kuroo’s hospital pew. He stops, motioning for Yukie to continue walking behind Atsumu and Iwaizumi.

Akaashi stands next to Bokuto, looking at Kuroo’s sleeping figure. Bokuto looks to Kenma.

“Will he be okay?”

“Yes. It’s gonna be a while though. Months, maybe.”

“Will he be awake before we leave?”

Kenma nods. “Yes. I pumped him with morphine and it put him right to sleep.”

Akaashi’s heart skips. “Morphine? How?” For anyone in any position to have any sort of drug is unheard of, especially one as rare and valuable as morphine. Not to mention, its addictive nature makes it twice as valuable for anyone who was hooked on it before the collapse.

Kenma flicks an empty syringe. “I found this a couple months ago on a hunt. Three people died for it.” His eyes settle on Kuroo. “I thought I would need it some time, and now it was all worth it.”

Bokuto looks at the ground solemnly. “I’d like him to be awake when we leave, if that’s okay. He’s my best friend, and if I don’t see him again--”

“Bokuto,” Akaashi says sharply and Bokuto straightens his posture. “You’ll see him again.”

Bokuto makes eye contact with Kenma and Akaashi can just tell what is going through his mind--he’s caught up in the idea that he’ll die on this journey, that this mission was doomed from the crash. Akaashi can’t let that happen, seeing as Bokuto himself is a symbol of hope, and likely the last one at that.

There’s nothing else Akaashi can do other than take Bokuto’s forearm. “Bokuto, let’s go. He’ll be here when we leave.” As they head out of the church-turned-hospital, Bokuto does not try to free himself from Akaashi’s grip.

Sakusa designates the prison house as Akaashi and Bokuto’s quarters for the night, placing Iwaizumi, Yukie, and Atsumu somewhere else. With the supervision of Matsukawa--and another guard, the light-haired one who handled Iwaizumi earlier in the morning, Hanamaki--Akaashi and Bokuto sit around the table with Kenma in the prison house, a map of metropolitan Tokyo in front of them.

“Here,” Kenma says, circling an area around Odaiba in the Port of Tokyo with red marker. “Lots of hijacked around here. Better yet, just avoid the entire Port. You said you know where you’re going?”

Akaashi nods. “Yes.” He takes the marker in Kenma’s hand and draws a messy five-sided star around Chiyoda-ku. “There’s a building near Tokyo Station.”

Kenma makes a face. “Chiyoda. Are you positive that’s where you wanna go?”

“Why?” Bokuto asks. “What’s in Chiyoda?”

“Uhm, I don’t remember exactly,” says Kenma. “But the survivors in Tokyo called the Minato, Chiyoda, and Chuo wards _sanjigoku_. The disk sits over Chuo-ku and from what I’ve heard, the beings themselves live in Chiyoda and Minato, which is where most of their ships are. I don’t. . . I never went that far in. None of the Tokyo survivors did.”

“ _Sanjigoku_ ,” Bokuto murmurs under his breath. It’s clear to see why it’s distressing. The name itself is daunting-- _three hells_. “So we just go around the bad parts, right Keiji?”

Akaashi looks at Kenma for a second and shakes his head. “I’m not sure it will be that easy. No matter what, we’re going through Chiyoda. We can avoid Chuo, but Minato-ku. . .”

“Oh,” Bokuto says and his face falls. “Oh. We’ll be okay, right Kenma?”

Kenma doesn’t respond, only turning his gaze back to the map. “That’s all I remember. I’m going back to Kuro.” He stands up and looks at Hanamaki and Matsukawa, beckoning them to leave with him. As he’s escorted out of the door, he turns to Bokuto. “You can see him before you leave.”

“I will,” says Bokuto but the door is shut and locked before he can finish it. 

Akaashi is about to stand up and lead Bokuto to the bedroom so they can try and get some sleep, but Bokuto puts his head in his hands. 

“Bokuto?” Akaashi asks.

“I’m scared, Keiji.”

A wave of pity falls over Akaashi, and he realizes he’s forgotten how much is riding on Bokuto alone. The mission itself is rooted in Bokuto’s talent and Bokuto’s abilities--Akaashi and the others are merely bodyguards, guides at most. When it comes down to it, the only person who has to make it to the syringe alive is Bokuto, and even by then, he might not even understand what to do. 

Akaashi runs his fingers through Bokuto’s hair. “It’s okay. Besides,” he says, a little forced, “we’ve still got four days of walking until we get there.”

“I know,” Bokuto replies. “But I’m. . .” He looks at Akaashi, amber eyes glistening with tears. “I’m useless out here.”

Akaashi frowns. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Bokuto insists. “We watched Ukai and Saeko get killed. I couldn’t do anything about it. It’s my fault.”

“They weren’t hijacked, Bokuto,” Akaashi reminds him gently. “By that logic, we’re just as responsible as you are. But you’re not. None of us could’ve saved them.” Akaashi pauses, letting his words soak in. “We’re gonna finish this for them.”

“But we have to go through Nagoya tomorrow too,” Bokuto says with pain in his voice. “And that’s another stupid city.”

Akaashi bites his lower lip. “Yeah, it is. But it’s not Tokyo and we’ll be fine.”

“But it’s--”

“Let’s sleep, Bokuto,” Akaashi interrupts. Bokuto’s only getting into his own head and he knows it would be best for them to ignore the thoughts. “Sakusa wants us out at sunrise, and I think the earlier we leave, the better.”

“Okay,” Bokuto says, taking Akaashi’s hand as Akaashi leads them up the stairs into the hallway. There’s three bedrooms and a bathroom, the young boy’s room they stayed in earlier, a room painted with pink and lined with posters which Akaashi believes was a girl’s room, and a neutral-colored room with a large bed and windows boarded so tightly that Akaashi thinks that room was where the family hid out before the beings got to them. 

“You can have the big bed,” Akaashi says. “I’ll go--”

“Can you stay with me?” Bokuto asks, holding Akaashi’s hand tight. “Just for a night. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep without you.”

Akaashi’s breath catches in his throat and it’s all he can do to nod, unsure of whether Bokuto saw him in the darkness. “Yeah. Yeah, sure I can.”

“Thanks,” Bokuto says, and Akaashi’s heart breaks when he hears the way he’s forcing himself to come off as happy. He’s terrified, and Akaashi can’t say he’s much different. In fact, Akaashi is glad Bokuto asked this, because he doesn’t think he could sleep without Bokuto either. 

The mattress is lumpy and cold, with nothing but a thin white sheet to act as covers. The emptiness of the room is so tangible that every time either of them breaths, it resounds in an echo throughout it. Akaashi doesn’t want to know what could’ve happened to the family in this room. 

Instead, he thinks of tomorrow, of Nagoya. He doesn’t quite remember much of the city from before the collapse, doesn’t even know if he’s been. Now, in the world of the hijacked, Nagoya is notorious for the gangs of survivors lurking around every corner, armed to the teeth, fighting for resources in massive territorial gang wars. It’s a dreary city, Akaashi thinks. He doesn’t want to go through it, but there is no other alternative. Unless they take a much longer detour, Nagoya stands right in between them and Tokyo.

“Keiji, I can’t sleep,” Bokuto whispers.

“Well, try,” Akaashi says, folding his hands behind his head. “You’re gonna need it.”

“But I can’t.”

“Try.”

“Keiji,” Bokuto moans. “I really can’t. Will you tell me a story?”

Akaashi blinks, surprised. “What?”

“Like something before the collapse. Something happy.”

“I don’t know if I can remember.” Akaashi is lying--he remembers lots before the collapse. But the memories are blindingly happy and he hates thinking about who he was before--bright, quiet, naive of what was to come. Here he is, futureless and uncertain, his life in danger at every moment.

“Come on,” Bokuto persists. “You gotta remember something. Did you have a girlfriend?”

Akaashi bristles. “No.”

“Really?” Bokuto asks, surprised. “I thought you did. You’re too pretty not to.”

“I was too busy for girls,” says Akaashi. “Did you?”

“Pssh, no. I was a military brat. There weren’t any girls on the base,” Bokuto says proudly. “And I don’t think I’m into women anyway.”

An uncomfortable silence blankets the room, as noticeable as the thin streams of moonlight in between the boards on the windows. 

“Oh,” says Akaashi finally. “I guess it doesn’t matter at the end of the day.”

Bokuto shifts over onto his back. “Yeah.” Another silence. “Akaashi, I have to tell you something.”

“Go for it.”

“I said his name earlier, Konoha.”

 _Konoha_. The name is familiar. Akaashi recalls the name Bokuto mentioned in his lie, the reason for the mission. _But real dead. Or real alive._ “What about him?”

“He was one of the other boys on the base. He was. . . uhm, my boyfriend, I guess. Like. . . like Iwaizumi.”

Akaashi laughs a bit under his breath. “I don’t know if Iwaizumi’s boyfriend is real.”

“Maybe not,” Bokuto says. “But Konoha was real.” Bokuto stops talking again, planning his words. “I don’t know if “boyfriend” is right. He was my first kiss, I think.”

“Good for you,” says Akaashi, unsure of what else to say.

“Who was yours?”

Akaashi pauses, heat rushing to his cheeks. “I don’t. . . nobody. I’ve never kissed anyone.”

“Really?” Bokuto asks in a lilt. “That can’t be right.”

“I think we should go to sleep,” Akaashi declares, pulling the sheets to his chest.

“Oh, come on! I thought you would’ve at least kissed someone now. Nothing?”

“Bokuto.”

“You’re still a virgin then,” says Bokuto, his voice sly. 

Akaashi can feel the blood pooling in his face. “None of this is important.”

“It’s not,” Bokuto agrees, “but it’s still better to talk about than stupid Nagoya.”

Akaashi can’t argue with that. As much as he hates talking about his past sex life, or lack thereof, it’s infinitely better than talking about the hell they’re about to be putting themselves through. He figures maybe he can last through Bokuto’s teasing a little while longer.

“Fine,” says Akaashi. “I don’t know what you want me to say though.”

“I’m not a virgin,” Bokuto says proudly. 

“I don’t care.”

“Keiji, but it’s cool that I’m not, right?” 

“I don’t care about people’s sex lives,” says Akaashi. “It’s boring.”

“But aren’t you proud of me?”

“Sure,” Akaashi says, turning over on his side to face Bokuto.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me who my first was?”

Akaashi purses his lips. “Who was your first, Bokuto?”

“It was Konoha!” says Bokuto again, his voice louder than a whisper. 

“That’s great.”

“Isn’t it?” Bokuto says. “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

“You don’t have to.”

He brings a hand up to his forehead. “Oh, Keiji. . . I don’t know what’s gonna happen tomorrow.”

“We’ll say goodbye to Kuroo,” Akaashi says. “And then we’ll start walking. It’s a--”

“A four day walk, yeah yeah,” Bokuto says. “I’m still nervous.”

“Don’t think too much about it,” Akaashi says. 

Then, Bokuto takes Akaashi’s hand and laces their fingers together. “Good night, Keiji.”

Akaashi does not move his hand, only enjoys the warmth Bokuto emits from his body. “Good night, Bokuto.”

Akaashi’s muscles are sore in the morning, from what he can’t tell. His body has woken itself up just as the sky is beginning to change color, the darkness fading into a purplish-pink. He figures it’s no later than six o’clock in the morning.

Next to him, Bokuto sleeps soundly, one of his hands falling over the bed and the other on top of Akaashi’s chest, pinning him to the mattress. Akaashi figures it’s as good a time as any to wake him.

“Bokuto,” he says, shaking him gently. “Bokuto.”

Bokuto opens his eyes, blinking rapidly a few times to wake himself up. “Is it time?” His voice is raspy with tiredness, and he sits up in the bed.

“Yes,” says Akaashi. “Let’s get some food and head out.”

“Did you sleep well? No nightmares?”

Akaashi shakes his head. For once, he slept soundly. Maybe it was the presence of a warm body next to him, but he did not see the dead bodies of his friends and family in his sleep.

“That’s nice,” says Bokuto, swinging his feet over the side of the bed.

They gather their things, eat a protein bar from their packs, and walk through the waking faction to the infirmary. Astumu, Iwaizumi, and Yukie are there already, standing next to Kuroo’s bed, speaking to him while Kenma sits by protectively. Kuroo’s gaze shifts when Akaashi and Bokuto open the doors, and a smile breaks out on his face, small and forced. 

“Kuroo!” Bokuto exclaims, rushing forward. As he’s about to give him a hug, Kenma holds out a hand. 

“He’s not ready for that yet.”

“Oh,” Bokuto says, dejected. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Kuroo says. He reaches for Bokuto’s hands, and Kenma moves out of the way. “You’re leaving.”

“You’re staying.”

Kuroo’s gaze shifts to Akaashi, standing behind Bokuto. “To Tokyo, I guess.”

“Nagoya first,” says Bokuto. “Stupid Nagoya.”

“Stupid Nagoya,” Kuroo echoes. “You’ll be fine.” There’s a certain edge to his voice suggesting that they may not. 

“We’ll come back for you,” says Bokuto. 

“Yeah,” Kuroo whispers, looking at Kenma. “I’ll see you.”

“I’ll see you.”

“Did you say bye to them?” asks Bokuto, pointing to Atsumu, Iwaizumi, and Yukie, who are standing at the entrance to the church, waiting on them.

Kuroo nods. “Yeah.” He pauses, searching Bokuto’s eyes. “Good-bye, Bo.”

“Good-bye, Kuroo,” Bokuto says, voice breaking. He takes a step back, giving Akaashi and Kuroo some privacy.

“You’re safe here?” asks Akaashi, gaze flickering to Kenma.

“Yes,” says Kuroo. “It’s he who saved you and Iwaizumi after all.”

“What?”

Kuroo nods. “Kenma must’ve seen the insignia on the helicopter.” He holds up his medallion, pointing to it. Then, he looks at Kenma. “I don’t know how he thought it was me, but. . .”

“Intuition,” says Kenma quickly. “We’ve been together so long and. . . I just knew. I told Sakusa not to shoot. Then I went back to grab Tora so we could wait for you.”

Akaashi dips his head. “Thank you.”

“I did it for Kuro,” Kenma says. “Not you.” Then, he turns around to a small stand of medical supplies and produces two guns. “Here. These are yours and Iwaizumi’s. They’re full.”

Akaashi blinks, surprised, and takes them both. “Thank you.” Then, he looks at Kuroo.

Kuroo gives a small smile, cheeks flushed. “Take care of Bo. He needs you a lot.”

Akaashi searches his eyes for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Okay,” Kuroo says. “I’m glad to hear it. See you later.”

“See you,” says Akaashi with a small wave.

Akaashi gives Iwaizumi his gun, and then they slip past the barbed wire at the front of the church, intent on leaving through the back. There is no goodbye, no advice from Sakusa or Matsukawa. They only slip past the back fence, pushing it closed as they do. When Akaashi turns around to look one more time at the faction, he sees the same spray-painted resurrectionist symbol on the back of one of the houses even on this side. Another shudder runs down his spine.

“We go through this forest,” says Atsumu. “Mind yerselves. There’s hijacked at the end.”

“Why?” asks Iwaizumi. “I mean, is there something?”

“Yeah, another town. It’s dangerous. Never been clean, though my father tried.”

Akaashi remembers what Matsukawa said about the resurrectionists, about how they kill anyone they come into contact with, on purpose. He decides not to ask Atsumu about it.

The forest stretches on for the next few hours. Akaashi’s thoughts stray around multiple times, about the resurrectionists, about Nagoya, about Tokyo, about Bokuto. He thinks about their conversation last night, about how casual it was. Akaashi only has those kinds of conversations with Bokuto. Just then, they can hear voices.

“Get down!” Atsumu hisses, and Akaashi flattens himself against the dirt instantly. 

“Hijacked,” says Iwaizumi under his breath.

There they are, humans with eyes so black Akaashi can see them even though they have to be at least twenty yards away. Four of them, each with a hunting rifle. They’re so obviously hijacked, from their strange attempts to communicate with each other through grunts and moans, their unsteady footsteps; the surest sign of a nonhuman. 

“Should we take them out?” asks Iwaizumi, aiming his pistol.

Atsumu holds up a hand. “Wait. They might be leaving.”

“Should we use Bokuto?” Iwaizumi asks again.

“We’re not doing anything,” Atsumu whispers harshly and just as he does, one of them turns around, pointing vaguely to the bushes that conceal the group. The others congregate around the man that pointed, looking for whatever’s there.

“We have to go,” Yukie says. “They spotted us.”

Atsumu nods. “She’s right, we gotta--”

Just then, there’s a scream from behind them. It’s a woman, tall, unarmed, black eyes.

“Go!” Atsumu yells, and she charges for them, splitting them right down the middle. 

There’s a man behind her, and her scream has alerted the other four hijacked, the armed ones, who give chase immediately.

“Bokuto!” Akaashi cries, grabbing hold of Bokuto’s hand. He turns, trying to see what is happening.

Yukie is on the ground, firing a shot into the woman’s chest. She falls to the earth, and then Yukie gets to her feet before the man behind her can tackle her, sprinting in Akaashi and Bokuto’s direction.

“They’re following us,” she says breathlessly. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

Akaashi begins to run, hearing the sounds of the hijacked, three of the armed ones, after them, Bokuto’s arm in his grasp. “Where are Atsumu and Iwaizumi?” he cries.

“Don’t know!” Yukie says. “Doesn’t matter! We’ll find them eventually!” She turns, firing a shot over her shoulder, and one of the hijacked goes down. However, the two other armed hijacked following them are loading their rifles.

“Watch out!” Yukie cries, grabbing Akaashi’s head and pushing it down just as a bullet whizzes by his hair. 

“Fuck!” Akaashi yells because there’s nothing else. Still running, he releases Bokuto. “Can you rescue one of them? Just one!”

“Okay!” Bokuto yells. “Okay, I’ll try! You just. . . cover for me!” He stops running and Akaashi and Yukie leap in front of him, tackling the one hijacked, the one that shot at Akaashi, and Yukie presses the muzzle of her pistol to his head, firing the trigger.

“Bokuto!” Akaashi screams as the hijacked dies. He turns around to see both Bokuto and the hijacked man on the ground.

“Is he. . . is he. . .” Akaashi begins, crawling over to Bokuto’s body. He presses his two fingers to Bokuto’s neck, feeling his pulse throb underneath. He lets out a long breath. “He’s alive.”

Yukie stands over the body of the hijacked man that Bokuto is rescuing. “How long does this take?”

“A few minutes maybe,” says Akaashi. “It’s good not to waste a bullet.” He omits the part where Bokuto’s abilities are out of commission for the next few hours or so.

“We don’t have time for this,” says Yukie. “I’m gonna shoot him.”

“No!” Akaashi yells, pushing her hand holding her gun out of the way. It skitters on the leaves, sliding underneath a shrub a few meters away. “If he dies, Bokuto will too.” Akaashi doesn’t know this for certain, but it’s better safe than sorry.

Yukie bites her lower lip. She shuts her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath, and then steps back. “Okay. But we have to find Atsumu and Iwaizumi.”

Suddenly, Akaashi hears the sharp intake of breath and Bokuto’s awake, gasping for air, eyes wide. He rushes over to him, putting his hand on his back. Yukie follows him.

“Are you okay?” Akaashi asks frantically. “Are you okay?”

Bokuto nods. “Yeah. . . yeah, I’m. . . fine. He’s. . . he’ll be okay. But he won’t wake up for a little.” Bokuto looks around. “Where’s. . . the others? Where are we?”

In the heat of the moment, Akaashi didn’t really look around. There’s a river, a few rocks, and still more trees and leaves. “We got separated. We have to find Iwaizumi and Atsumu.”

“Okay,” Bokuto says, and Akaashi takes his hand, bringing him to his feet. 

“Akaashi!”

Akaashi freezes and his entire body goes stiff. Because he knows this voice, and it isn’t Bokuto’s or Yukie’s. It isn’t Atsumu’s or Iwaizumi’s either. 

He turns around slowly, pushing Bokuto behind him, taking a step back. Standing there, just in front of the river, brown hair tangled and voice only half-there, is Sarukui.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this out earlier, but I had such a busy day so it was out a little later, I'm sorry about that! please excuse any typos, I'll try to reedit it soon! thank you for reading<3


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